The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  She and Lockwood exchanged the usual round of pleasantries. Then she bestowed a smile upon each of us. “Thank you for coming in today,” she said. “Mr. Barnes and I have another meeting shortly, so I will get straight to the matter. As I mentioned on the phone, Anthony, I have a juicy little case that Lockwood and Company may be able to attend to on my behalf. DEPRAC has alerted me to it, and I think it is perfect for you.”

  Lockwood nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. We’d be honored.”

  I glanced at him; he was all smiles and keen attention. Ordinarily, Lockwood let no one call him by his first name. His dead parents had done so; they, and no one else. But Penelope Fittes, stretched back all languorous and catlike in her chair, had used it, and Lockwood hadn’t blinked an eye.

  “Solomon Guppy,” she said. “Have any of you heard of him?”

  We looked at one another. The name rang a faint bell.

  “He was a killer, wasn’t he?” Lockwood said slowly. “Thirty years back? Wasn’t he hanged?”

  Ms. Fittes’s lips parted in delight. “A killer, yes, and, yes, he was hanged. One of the last in England to pay that penalty before the Ghost Prevention Laws put a stop to capital punishment. It’s said they held back the passing of the laws for a month just so they could see him twitch and dangle. Because he wasn’t only a killer, but a cannibal, too.”

  “Ick,” I said.

  Lockwood clicked his fingers. “Yes, that’s right….He ate a neighbor, didn’t he? Or was it two?”

  “Can you enlighten us about that, Mr. Barnes?” The lady nodded at the inspector. With his weatherworn raincoat, battered face, and graying shoe-brush mustache, he looked even more out of place in the elegant surroundings than I did.

  “Just one, as far as is known,” Barnes said. “It’s thought he invited the victim over for tea one afternoon. The fellow came around, bringing a fruitcake with him. They found the cake on the sideboard a week later, still in its wrapper. It was the only thing that hadn’t been eaten.”

  George shook his head. “That’s just wrong. Wrong on so many different levels.”

  Penelope Fittes laughed lightly. “Yes, little did the neighbor know he was the tea. Tea and dinner, as it happened, for several days afterward.”

  “I remember the case well,” Barnes said, “though I was just an apprentice on the force at the time. Two of the arresting officers took early retirement after the trial, as a result of what they found when they broke in. Many of the worst details were never disclosed. Anyway, in his confession, Solomon Guppy explained that he’d used a number of recipes—roasted dishes, fricassees, curries, even salads. He was quite experimental.”

  “Crackers,” I said.

  “I’m not sure about those, but he might have tried them.”

  “No, I mean he was crackers. He was clearly bonkers. Barking mad.”

  “Certainly. Mad and bad,” Ms. Fittes said. “It took six policemen to subdue him when he was finally arrested, owing to his size and ferocity. But arrested he was, and hanged and cremated, and salt was strewn over the prison yard where the ashes were interred. In other words, all precautions were taken. But now it seems that his spirit—or that of his victim—has somehow returned to the scene of the crime.” She sat back and engineered one elegant leg over the other. “Mr. Barnes?”

  The inspector nodded. “It is a small suburban house in Ealing, west London. The street is called ‘The Leas.’ Guppy’s place was number seven. It’s been left empty since the crime, of course, but people live nearby. It’s been quiet up till now, but recently we’ve had reports of certain disturbances in the vicinity, a terror spreading through the street. Sensitives have traced it back to number seven.”

  “The phenomena are very subtle,” Ms. Fittes added, “No apparitions. Mostly—by all accounts—just sounds.”

  She glanced across at me with her dark and serious eyes. From the tone of her voice, you’d have thought Listening was a trivial psychic Talent. But the flash of her gaze implied it was the most important thing in the world.

  Her grandmother had been supreme at it. You only had to read Marissa Fittes’s Memoirs to know that. Long ago she had spoken with ghosts, and they’d answered her. Clearly Penelope Fittes knew I had a reputation, too.

  “What kinds of sounds?” Lockwood asked.

  “Sounds to do with the previous occupant of the house,” Barnes said.

  “Mr. Barnes asked me to investigate,” Penelope Fittes said, “and I agreed. However, my agency has many challenges left over from the winter, and most of my best teams are still busy. It struck me that I knew another organization with the necessary skills to take this on.” She smiled. “What do you think? If you manage it—well, I’m sure I’ll have other cases to pass your way.”

  “We’ll be glad to do it,” Lockwood said.

  “I’m pleased to hear that, Anthony. Yours is a company that I much admire, and I believe we can do great things together in future. I think of this as a joint venture between us, and I will send a representative of the Fittes Agency to accompany you.”

  “It’s the Source that we’re after,” Barnes said. “That goes without saying. The place was cleaned out very thoroughly back when it all happened, but they must have missed something. We want to know what.”

  “If that’s all,” Ms. Fittes said, “I’ll introduce you to my secretary, to make arrangements. The house is empty; you can visit tonight, if you’d like.”

  She stood, a languid flowing movement. That was our cue; we also stood, as one.

  While farewells were being said, I waited by a side table. Photographs of past agents studded its surface like gravestones. There were famous operatives, and famous teams posing below a unicorn banner in some swanky hall. The agents themselves were young, smiling confidently in pressed gray jackets. Adult supervisors stood alongside, hemming them in. In some an old, sharp-faced woman in black, hair scraped sternly up, was also present: Marissa Fittes, the founder of the agency.

  But one of the photos was different, and it caught my eye. Black and white and faded, it showed a slight, dark-haired woman sitting in a high-backed chair. The room was filled with shadows. She was looking away from the camera, off toward the light. An air of melancholy hung about her; she seemed both thin and ill.

  “That was my mother, who died young.”

  I turned with a start. The others were filing out, but Penelope Fittes was at my shoulder, smiling. Strong perfume garlanded her like flowers.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Oh, please don’t be. I barely remember her. It was Grandmama Marissa who ran the household, who built the business, who taught me everything.” She nodded at the woman in the black dress. “Dear Grandmama made me what I am. Everything you see around you is hers.” She touched my arm. “You know I asked for you specifically, Lucy.”

  I blinked. “No, I didn’t know that, Ms. Fittes.”

  “Yes. When I first mentioned this case to Anthony, he told me you were no longer working with him. That disappointed me, for—between you and me, Lucy—it was because of you and Anthony that I became interested in Lockwood and Company.” Ms. Fittes laughed prettily, her black eyes sparkling. “He is a fine agent, but I have long been an admirer of yours, too. I told him that if he wanted the commission, he would have to get you back.”

  “Oh. Did you? It was your idea? That’s…very kind of you.”

  “He said he would try. I’m so glad he did, Lucy. I’m so pleased you agreed to rejoin the agency.”

  “Well, as it happens I haven’t actually—”

  “See how you get on with this case,” Penelope Fittes said. “I have every confidence in your abilities, but I believe that success will depend mainly on you. A skillful Listener will be essential at the Guppy house. Anthony knows that if it goes well, Lockwood and Company will greatly benefit. Now, you had better catch up with your friends.” She waved me on; as I left the room, her scent spiraled around me like twisting arms.

  In some ways,
what happened after that was just like the old days. We’d seen the client and had the briefing; next we’d prepare our equipment and research the case. If we were to visit Ealing that evening, there was no time to lose, so Lockwood set the wheels in motion as soon as we left Fittes House. Standing on the crowded sidewalk, he promptly divided forces; he and Holly would buy extra supplies of salt and iron, while George would scour the National Newspaper Archives to find out all he could about the Guppy murder. And I—

  What would I do? Where did I fit in?

  “We’ll meet you at the Café Royale in Piccadilly Circus, Luce,” Lockwood said. “We can all get a taxi from there. Four o’clock okay? That’ll give you time to sort out your own stuff, won’t it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I was still thinking about what Penelope Fittes had said to me a moment before. That it had been her idea to involve me. At my apartment the previous day, Lockwood had somehow skirted around that particular detail. Unless I’d missed something, he’d very much made it seem as if the impulse had come from him.

  “Great, then we look forward to seeing you later. Isn’t it an excellent case? I’m glad you’re with us on this one.”

  “Sure…” Obviously, it didn’t really matter whose idea it had been to bring me along. And I didn’t have any right to feel annoyed about it, either. I was the one who’d left Lockwood & Co., after all.

  Business, that’s all it was; just business. “Actually,” I said, “there’s just one thing. Four o’clock’s too late—it won’t give us enough daylight when we get to Ealing. Better to arrive well before dark, so we can get the lay of the land and plan the layout of our circles. It’s best to take preliminary readings before sunset anyway. And it’ll give us the chance to look in all the nooks and crannies that would be invisible to us after dark. For all those reasons, I’d suggest we meet at two.” I smiled coolly at him. “Agreed?”

  Lockwood nodded; if he was perhaps slightly taken aback, he hid it well. “I see what you’re saying, but would that give George enough time—?”

  “I think it’s a very good point that Lucy makes,” Holly Munro said, unexpectedly. “George?”

  George made some minor adjustment to his glasses. “Getting gobbled by a big bloke has never been my idea of fun,” he said, “even if said bloke is a ghost. I’m all for taking extra care. Yes, I’ll be finished at the Archives by two. Let’s go with that and get there early.”

  Lockwood’s expression had become one of studious unconcern. “You’re all probably right. Fine. Two o’clock it is, Lucy. We’ll see you there.”

  “Do you want anything from Mullet’s supply store?” Holly Munro asked me.

  “No, it’s okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got everything I need. I’ll see you later.”

  I turned before they did and made off into the crowd. I was going against the flow, having to force my way a little, but that suited my mood just then. When I was sure I was out of sight, I took a side road down to the Thames Embankment, where a lot of the cheaper merchants plied their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge. It had been a fib, what I’d said just then. I was almost out of supplies.

  I didn’t feel bad about the fib, though. I’d been lied to as well.

  The tide was low, and wet gravel glinted steeply at the base of the Embankment wall. Seagulls wheeled high above. The road was busy with traffic; I crossed over and walked upriver toward the bridge. Above my head, spotlighted billboards advertised the latest products of the giant Rotwell Agency. In one poster, their mascot, Roger, a roguish cartoon lion, gave a mighty thumbs-up while trampling a cartoon ghost. In another, Roger held some of the exciting new home defense equipment that had been dreamed up by the scientists of the Rotwell Institute and was now, thanks to their partners in the Sunrise Corporation, available to customers everywhere. In a third, he appeared with his paw draped over the bulky shoulder of Steve Rotwell, the agency’s chairman, whose personal pledge—WE FIGHT TO MAKE SAFE YOUR NIGHT—was printed in a speech bubble emerging from his mouth. Steve Rotwell’s teeth sparkled, his green eyes twinkled, his chin protruded like the prow of a gunship; he radiated more machismo than the cartoon lion. He was the epitome of reassurance in the age of the Problem and—thanks to all this advertising—the most popular figure in London.

  I scowled and hurried past. I’d once seen Rotwell kill a man by sticking a sword straight through his chest. The ads didn’t have quite the desired effect on me.

  I visited the salt merchants, bought my supplies, and came out onto the Embankment again. Beyond the billboards, stone steps led down to the gravel, and here an unsavory figure crouched, a mud-stained burlap bag beside her. She was scraping dirt off a variety of pronged instruments that had been laid out on the Embankment wall. From the sun-blistered puffer jacket, straw hat, slime-caked boots, and the seabirds lying unconscious nearby, I recognized Flo Bones, a relic-girl of my acquaintance. Flo trawled the Thames shoreline for psychic jetsam washed up by the river, and sold it on the black market. She’d helped Lockwood & Co. on several occasions and was prickly, but decent enough, provided you stepped carefully and always breathed through your mouth.

  As I approached, Flo was scooping gunk off a strange wide spatula-headed implement. She glanced up, saw me, and flicked a glob of muck over the wall.

  “Well, look what the tide’s brought in,” she said.

  “All right, Flo.” By her standards, this had been a pleasant greeting. She hadn’t flicked the muck at me, either, which was a first. “See you’ve been busy,” I said. “Any joy?”

  “Found lots of rubbish. Two drowned rats, a pig’s head, and now you.”

  I grinned and sat on the wall beside her. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, I was at a relic-man’s meeting half the night. Only managed a few hours’ work. Found me a couple of bones with faint auras, and a rusty whistle that carries some kind of psychic charge. That’s all.”

  “Doesn’t sound too bad. You’ll sell them, then?”

  Flo pushed her hat back and scratched at her hairline, the one clean part of her face. “Dunno. Got to raise my game these days. There’s a lot of strong items on the market, and the best of ’em are selling well. They say there’s a new collector in town, and the dealers are buying up everything decent.” She glanced at me with her shrewd blue eyes. “Guess who was at the meeting last night, snaffled all the good stuff? Winkman.”

  “Julius Winkman?” He was a black marketeer whom Lockwood & Co. had helped put in prison the year before.

  “No. He’s still inside. It was his wife. Well, his son was there, too, but it’s Adelaide who calls the shots. She bought up all sorts of weird and wonderful Sources at the show last night. A haunted painting, a bloodstained glove, a mummified head, a Roman helmet…” Flo spat over the wall. “Me, I thought half were fakes, but the kid vetted them and said they were kosher. Old Ma Winkman bought the lot. All going straight to this new collector. Anything good we find, we’re to bring it to the next night-market too. I’ll polish up the whistle, as best I can, but I’m not sure it’ll cut it.” She tapped her instrument on the wall. “So, where’ve you been hiding, Carlyle? Been ages. Barely been able to contain myself, not seeing you.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  “Not for Lockwood.”

  “No….” I eyed the instrument. “What is that thing?”

  “Slime flange.”

  “Oh…Yeah, I’ve been working for myself. But I’ve just been with Lockwood, as it happens. Going to do a job with him. Only a one-off. I’m not rejoining.”

  “No, well, of course you aren’t.” Flo picked up a sharper tool, thick with blue-black river clay. “That Holly Munro’s still there, isn’t she?”

  I paused. “Actually, it wasn’t because of Holly that I left.”

  She scraped muck off her prong. “Uh-huh.”

  “I had other reasons.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Can you ho
ld this muck-prong a tick?” Flo said. “I’m getting dirt everywhere.”

  “Yeah….Now I’m getting it all over me.”

  “Just need to wipe my hands.” She did so, on her puffer jacket. “There. That’s that done. Well, been nice seeing you, Carlyle. I’ve got to go. There’s a lukewarm kebab waiting for me in Wapping.”

  “Lovely…Flo,” I said, as she gathered up her tools and shoved them in the belt beneath her coat, “this mummified head you mentioned. What was it like?”

  “I dunno. Eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, the usual. Why?”

  “Anything else? Just that I came into contact with one myself a couple of nights ago.”

  Flo gathered up her burlap sack. She leaned over the wall, surveying the line of mud that ran east along the north shore of the Thames. “’S’not high tide for another hour….Think I’ll go that way. The head? Hard to tell the details, what with all the cobwebs on it. Man’s. Bit of a pointy black beard going on. I wasn’t paying much attention. It was in a silver-glass case; and, like I say, it was already spoken for. They said there was a powerful Specter attached to it. Winkman bought it for a lot of cash, I’m sure.”

  I was frowning at her. “Do you know who brought it in?”

  But with a wave and a waft of unwashed air, Flo Bones was gone. In moments she had skipped down the tidal steps and was crunching away from me along the Strand.

  The Café Royale showed its broad glass front on the western side of Piccadilly Circus, where double rows of coffee-colored tables stretched beneath its brown-and-white striped awnings. An arc of brick-lined channels, cut into the sidewalk and filled with running water, gave it protection from restless spirits during the night; toward dusk, lavender fires would be lit beside the doors. It was a popular spot even after dark; in early afternoon on this late winter day, the place was almost full, the windows wet and steamy. When I arrived, weighed down with equipment bags and a ghost-jar in my backpack, I found Holly Munro waiting at a table just inside the door. She was reading a copy of the Times.