The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  He hesitated. “It very well might, yes.”

  “And it would really help out Lockwood and Co., you say?”

  “It really would, Luce.”

  “So if it’s just a one-off…”

  “Yes.”

  “And you really think my Talent would make a difference…”

  “There’s no one else I would want at my side.”

  Strange, sometimes, how you make a particular choice. When it’s not a specific thought or line of argument that decides you, but more a set of jumbled sensations that changes your mind. I’d been ready to say no to him the entire time; even at the very end I was opening my mouth to apologize and say good-bye. But then images passed across my vision, like a pack of cards being flicked in front of my eyes. I saw Lockwood, George, and Portland Row, the house and life I’d left behind. I saw the Fittes furnaces, and moments from my solitary walks through London. I saw the hapless Rotwell team; most of all I saw Mr. Farnaby himself, in all his swollen pomposity and heartlessness, turning his back on me.

  For once, just for once, it would be nice to work with true companions again.

  “Okay,” I said offhandedly. “You should know that my fees have gone up. There’s a going rate for freelancers, but I charge ten percent more. And I don’t take orders from anybody. I come in as an independent consultant, and that includes strategy and risk evaluation. Everything we do has to be agreed upon beforehand. If you’re happy with those terms, and if you think George and Holly will be, too, then I don’t see a problem with your proposal.” I held out my hand. “For one or two nights only. I’m in.”

  Lockwood’s eyes sparkled. “Lucy,” he said, “thank you. I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

  For the first time, the old grin extended its way fully across his face. Its radiance bathed me; that was something else that hadn’t changed at all.

  “So…Lockwood.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to deny it. I saw you with him. What was all that about?”

  It was morning the following day, and I was up early, getting ready in front of the mirror. I’d been awake half the night thinking about Lockwood—about his request, and the answer I’d given him. It was a bit annoying not being able to sleep, but it was a change being kept up by moral conundrums rather than Wraiths and Specters. Doubts, like ghosts, gain strength in darkness; even with the dawn I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. To suppress my misgivings, I busied myself trying on dressier clothes than I normally wore. Fittes House, where I was headed, was a prestigious location. It would be best to look the part.

  “I can see you’ve agreed to something stupid,” the skull said. “You’ve been standing there for hours. Normally you spend about thirty seconds getting dressed, and that includes your token ‘wash.’” The voice grew thoughtful. “What could it be? Not a date, surely—the boy’s got eyes.”

  I glared over my shoulder. Ever since I’d retrieved my towel, the ghost had been mouthing urgently at me through the glass. At first I’d ignored it. The skull had no love for Lockwood; its contributions wouldn’t have been helpful. But in the end, I’d gotten bored with the silence of my room. Some people had a radio to listen to; me, I had a phantom in a jar.

  “Of course it’s not a date!” I snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I glared at my outfit. It had been a while since I’d worn it; I felt unsure. “This is a business meeting.”

  The skull gave a long, slow whoop of derision. “Ugh! I don’t believe it! You’ve rejoined them, haven’t you? You’re back with those fools again!”

  “I’m not ‘back’ with them,” I said. “I’m helping them out. It’s one time only.”

  “One time? Ha! Give it five minutes, and you’ll be back sleeping in your cramped little attic at Lockwood’s, snuggling up with that Holly Munro. I bet she uses your room now.”

  “Ack! That’s never going to happen.”

  “Five minutes. Take it from me.”

  “Holly Munro has her own place. She doesn’t sleep there, anyway.”

  “What do you care whether she does or not?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’ve got a good thing going here,” the skull said. “It’s called independence. Don’t throw it away. And, speaking of throwing things away—your dress. Too tight.”

  “You think so? It looks all right to me.”

  “You’re only looking at the front, love.”

  An altercation ensued here. I won’t go into it. I was distracted, out of sorts; I was in a kind of heightened state, swept up by excitement, uncertainty, and irritation. Ever since I’d seen the hollow boy, the ghost that had worn Lockwood’s dead and bloodied face, I’d kept my vow to stay away from Lockwood. I didn’t want that future; I’d plotted a different trajectory for myself. Yet now, one single visit from him had pulled me—temporarily—off course. I was cross with myself; but the prospect of what I was doing also quickened my heart. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t in the mood for fashion advice from a stupid skull.

  Even so, the end result was that I changed back into my usual skirt and leggings.

  “You’re taking me along, of course,” the skull said, when I was putting on my rapier.

  “No way.”

  “If it’s a tough case, you’ll need me. You know you will.”

  “It’s just an initial conversation. If we—if Lockwood and Co. is given this case, I’ll come back and get you. Maybe.”

  There was a pause. “Whatever.” The skull spoke dismissively. “Doesn’t bother me. See if I care.”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t need you, anyway. I can talk to other people.”

  I snorted; I was still fed up with it. “Like who?”

  “People.”

  “You so don’t. Who else have you ever talked to? As a skull, I mean. There…see?” I said. “There’s nobody.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong,” the skull said. “I spoke with Marissa Fittes once. So you’re not the only one, Miss Clever-Clogs.”

  “Really?” I pulled up short. “I didn’t know that. When was this?”

  “What, do I have a pocket watch in here? It was ages back. When I was first found, they fished me out of Lambeth sewers, cleaned me up, and took me to her. She asked me a few questions, then shut me in this bottle.”

  “How did you get into the Lambeth sewers?”

  The face screwed up in distaste. “Don’t ask. I came to a bad end.”

  “Sounds like it.” I stared at the ghost. In many months of irritating, self-aggrandizing conversation, it had never revealed this information about its past. And Marissa Fittes had been the founder of the first psychic detection agency, the only agent that I’d heard of with a Talent similar to mine. She had been the grandmother of the current leader of the company—the woman I was meeting today—and was still a national heroine. It was actually no small deal. I finished with the mirror, looked for my jacket. “So what was she like, Marissa?”

  A grimace from the jar. “Formidable. A powerful, ironhearted psychic who’d have swallowed your precious Lockwood and Company for breakfast, like a shark gulping a minnow. No offense to you idiots, I’m sure.”

  “So she really could talk with spirits.”

  “Oh, yeah. She did lots of stuff. You’re a babe in arms, honey, compared to her. What a lot of questions you have today,” the skull went on. “Tell you what, I might answer some more if you hang around a bit and don’t go scuttling after Lockwood.”

  “Tempting,” I said, “and you put it so nicely. But you’ll have to talk to yourself this morning. I’ve got to go.”

  As it turned out, I wasn’t on time, anyway. There’d been a Specter on the Northern Line the night before, and salting parties were working in the tunnels. The Tube was delayed. I arrived at Charing Cross five minutes late. Cursing, perspiring, I ran up the Strand to Fittes House, where my way was blocked by the usual crowds of the desperate and ghost-haunted, all come to petition the company for help. A further five m
inutes was lost as I pushed my way to the front of the line. Once there, I had to talk my way past the surly doorman. It was like a set of obstacles in a fairy tale; by now I was fifteen minutes late. Even then I somehow caught my coat in the revolving doors and had to go around twice before I fought myself free.

  I stumbled at last into the foyer. A row of neat receptionists, each one more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than the next, regarded me with identical bland smiles.

  I closed my mouth, adjusted my skirt, pushed back my hair, and dabbed ineffectually at a sweaty temple with a sleeve. “Good morning. I’m—”

  The nearest receptionist spoke. “Good morning, Ms. Carlyle. If you would like to go through, your associates are already waiting in the main hall. Ms. Fittes will meet you presently.”

  I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I know the way.”

  Across the foyer I went, past the iron bust of the skull’s old confidante, Marissa Fittes. Past the oak doors, the gilded paintings, my boots tapping on cold marble. Then into the conference hall, where tall windows looked out over the snarled traffic of the Strand, and daylight glinted on the glass pillars of the Fittes collection. There they were, safe behind silver-glass: nine legendary psychic objects from the first days of the agency. The tiny Frank Street coffin; Gödel’s metal arm; the bones of Long Hugh Hennratty; the Clapham Butcher Boy’s terrible serrated knife….At night, trapped ghosts moved colorfully within the pillars; now everything was monochrome and still.

  Three people stood beside the column dedicated to the Cumberland Place haunting, studying the bloody nightgown it contained. And now my heart really began to hammer, and my nerves started to fail me. I felt far worse than I had during the pursuit of Emma Marchment’s ghost two nights before.

  Whatever dangerous assignment Penelope Fittes was proposing, this was the part I dreaded. My first meeting with my ex-colleagues: Lockwood, George, and Holly Munro.

  I confected what I hoped was a relaxed and confident smile. I walked toward them as they turned.

  Lockwood, of course, I’d seen already. But this was different. The previous day, he’d been a guest in my house, asking for my help; he’d been at least as uncomfortable as me. Now I was the outsider, and he was back in his accustomed position as leader of the company. The awkwardness was suddenly all on my side. Still, he looked relaxed as I approached; and I was grateful for it. He gave me a welcoming grin. “And here she is! Lucy—it’s good to see you.”

  He wore his slim, dark suit; his hair was swept back and, I thought, subtly gelled. He was making more of an effort than usual. I hadn’t seen that attention to detail before.

  For me? No. Penelope Fittes was far more likely.

  “Hi, Lockwood,” I said. With that, I turned to George.

  Four months had passed since I’d set eyes on him: George Cubbins, Lockwood’s second in command—amateur scientist, researcher extraordinaire, and committed casual dresser. That morning, like most mornings that I remembered, he was doing things with a stained T-shirt and saggy pair of faded jeans that defied both taste and gravity. As I could have predicted, he hadn’t made the slightest effort to scrub up. In the elegant confines of Fittes House he stood out like a wart on a wedding day, a thistle in a salad bowl. Some things hadn’t changed.

  But others had, which startled me. George seemed thinner and, I thought, more careworn. He looked older, too, with harder lines around the eyes. How had this happened in only four months? It was true that agents saw a lot of things, and saw them often. We used up our youth pretty fast sometimes. But I’d never thought George would be prey to that. Seeing it gave me a sharp pang.

  “Hello, George,” I said.

  “Hello, Lucy.” As he said it, I watched his face. I wasn’t waiting for a grin. You didn’t get those with George. His face was similar in shape, color, and texture to a cold milk pudding; and it had the same range of expressions, too. But if you looked closely, you’d see clues to his mood—a twitch of the mouth, perhaps; or his eyes, deep beneath the surface of his spectacles, shining when he was happy or excited. If he pushed his glasses up his nose in a jaunty manner, that was a good sign, too.

  But did we have any of that today? No.

  He was pretty upset about it, Lockwood had said.

  “Nice to see you,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  “Hasn’t it?” said George.

  “Funnily enough, we were just saying how nice it would be to see you, Luce,” Lockwood said, clapping George on the shoulder. “Weren’t we, George?”

  “Yes,” said George. “We were.”

  “Yes, and Holly was looking forward to hearing all about your freelance work,” Lockwood went on. “Who you’ve been working with, how you got along with them. You even did something with the Rotwell group, didn’t you, Luce? I hope you’ll tell us about it later.”

  With that he did a kind of wave of the arm that led my gaze to Holly.

  And there she was. Charming Holly, as pretty and perfect as ever. She hadn’t changed much during these last few months; she hadn’t suddenly become saggy or bedraggled or noticeably flawed or anything. In fact, because of the importance of the meeting, she’d dolled herself up even more than usual. She wore the kind of dress you need to be poured into; the sort I would have ripped as soon as I tried wriggling it over my shoulders. It was a dress that would have gotten stuck halfway down my midriff, with my arms trapped and my head covered, and left me bouncing blindly off the walls for hours, half naked, trying to struggle free. That sort of dress. For completists, who want the details, it was blue.

  Unlike with George and Lockwood, where the four months seemed to have lasted a lifetime, it didn’t feel as if I’d been away from Holly very long at all. Partly this was because I saw her photos in the papers so much. Also because throughout the winter there’d been a sort of Holly-shaped hole in my brain, into which I used to throw dark thoughts. I probably spent too much time there, like a moody Inuk fishing at an ice hole, sitting on the edge, staring in.

  “Hello, Holly,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going so well, Lucy. It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “Yeah. You, too. You look good.”

  “So do you. Freelancing obviously suits you. I’d love to hear all about how you’ve been getting on. I’ve heard great things. I think you’re doing so well.”

  Once upon a time it would have annoyed me, the record number of fibs crammed into that single scrap of dialogue. I was sure Holly had about the same amount of interest in my freelance work as she had in my choice of toothpaste (less, actually—given the way her perfect teeth gleamed so brightly every time she smiled). And everything else was a lie, too, since I clearly didn’t look good at all. As always happens when I’m running for a meeting, I only started properly sweating once I’d arrived and was with others. Right now I felt hot, flushed, and disordered, both inside and out.

  But, to be honest, it wasn’t my place to get cross with Holly anymore, so I decided to take her niceties at face value.

  “Great,” I said. “Thanks. I wish I’d gotten more dolled up, though. I didn’t think to wear a dress.”

  “You could try wearing that one,” George said, tapping the pillar, where the gory nightgown worn by the Cumberland Place heiress on the night of her brutal murder dangled on its metal frame.

  Lockwood laughed. Holly laughed. Taking my cue, I laughed, too. George didn’t utter so much as a titter. I searched his face for clues. Nothing.

  Our laughter ended rather raggedly. We stood in silence. “You’d think someone would hurry up and see us,” Lockwood said.

  “So there’s no word yet on what Ms. Fittes wants?” I asked after a pause.

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you done any work for her before?”

  “Well, we’re not really working for her now,” Lockwood explained. “As I said, it’s more she’s looking out for us, sending occasional jobs our way.”

  “Right.”

  “How much are yo
u charging?” George asked suddenly. “With this freelance lark?” He was staring blankly down the hall between the columns.

  “Me?” I hesitated, remembering that I still hadn’t sent my invoice to Farnaby for the last job. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get paid. “Does it matter?”

  “No. Except I’m not sure I could survive on my own with what Lockwood gives me, so I guess you’ve had to raise your fees.”

  “A bit, I guess. I do okay.”

  “So what do you charge?”

  I opened my mouth, and closed it. I could see Lockwood frowning; it was hard to know what to say. Fortunately, George’s line of questioning was interrupted that moment by an attendant who reported that Penelope Fittes was ready to receive us.

  Two great psychic detection agencies dominated the war against the Problem. If the Rotwell Agency was the brashest and most innovative, the Fittes Agency was the biggest, oldest, and most prestigious. Its chairperson, Penelope Fittes, wielded great influence; even so, she was seldom seen—following an attempt on her life the previous autumn, she had become reclusive and rarely left Fittes House. Industrialists and public figures sought audiences with her; to ordinary people she was less an actual living woman than a name, a symbol, a climate of opinion. To be summoned to her presence was an important accolade.

  Her private apartment was on the top floor of the building, but to meet us she had descended to a reception room that was just a short flight of stairs up from the lobby. It was a room of brown and gold. At one end, a large desk overlooking the Strand gave it the feel of a study; the rest was filled with pleasant chairs and sofas, and ornate, rather old-fashioned furniture. There were photographs on the walls and tables, and displays of antique rapiers; the air smelled of sunlight, polish, and expensive furnishings. And of coffee—a pot sat on a central table, with cups arranged around it. Penelope Fittes herself was waiting there; and, with her, as crumpled and hangdog as ever, Inspector Montagu Barnes of DEPRAC, the Department of Psychic Research and Control.

  Ms. Fittes greeted us gravely, shaking our hands and indicating our chairs. As always (I had met her on two previous occasions), she was plush and well upholstered, a perfect match for the studied elegance of the room. A strikingly attractive woman, with long dark hair as lushly textured as her dark-mauve velvet dress, she had the kind of beauty that was unsettling because it was so out of the ordinary. It paid no lip service to the commonplace: her skin was lovely, the curves of her cheekbones exquisitely well-defined; her big black eyes were both beguiling and formidable.