The Screaming Staircase

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Doesn’t have to be anything specific.” That was George. Not content with his kippers, he was preparing a final bacon sandwich on an impressive scale. “Sometimes it’s just about exploring the unknown. Give me a suit of iron armor and I’d happily travel to the Other Side.”

  “Might need to be an extra-large-size suit, particularly if you eat that massive sandwich,” Lockwood said. “You can always borrow the spirit-cape, though.”

  “It’s such a pity I lost the other one,” I said. The memory made me feel bad.

  Lockwood shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Besides, who knows what’s still packed away upstairs? But we were talking about the Shadow. He was definitely doing something. Rotwell said as much. We’ve got to find out what.”

  “First we have to get our heads around all of this,” Kipps said. “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Nor me,” Holly agreed. “I’m just amazed you’ve both come back in one piece.”

  I didn’t say anything. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could still see the black sky stretching over the alternate, frosted world.

  “Here’s what I think,” George said, chewing on a piece of bacon. “Lucy and Lockwood went to the place where ghosts come from. At least, it’s where some of them are hanging around, ready to step through weak points to our world. Normally we don’t have access to it, though those of us with psychic Sight get glimpses of it, I guess. But then the Shadow crossed over and started strolling around over there, and that got the spirits very excited. He had the effect of weakening the barrier between worlds. When you saw him in the churchyard, he was like a ghost, wasn’t he? You were seeing him on the Other Side—the barrier had completely frayed.”

  “I wonder if any living person saw us,” Lockwood said. “Never thought to ask.”

  “So what I’m interested in,” George went on, “is whether anyone’s stirred them up like that before. And if so”—he gestured with a mustard spoon at the map on the wall, the one showing the concentric spread of historic hauntings across the country—“what effect it’s had on the Problem.”

  The doorbell rang. Holly was closest. She disappeared into the hall.

  “Big mysteries,” Kipps mused. “Going to be tough to solve.”

  “Have confidence, Quill,” Lockwood said. “With the team we’ve got, I think we’ll do just fine.” He stretched back in his chair. “Who was at the door, Hol?”

  Holly had reappeared, and in the instant before she spoke, we all noticed how pale she was, and how stiff her expression. “We have two visitors, Lockwood,” she said. “I didn’t…I couldn’t…Well, I mean to say, they’re here right now. I’ve had to let them in.”

  She stood aside. Behind her, smiling her glossy smile, was Penelope Fittes.

  Ms. Fittes stepped into the kitchen. It was a small room, and there wasn’t much space for her. She gazed around at the debris of our meal. She wore a green dress, mid-length, with a dark brown coat on top. As always, she might have been on her way to a dinner party. “Good morning, everyone,” she said. “I hope I’m not intruding. May I come in?”

  Well, she already had, of course. Lockwood jumped up. “Of course, of course. Please—”

  “Just a little visit. No, don’t get up. I wouldn’t want to disturb you. I do have someone else with me, too.” She gestured behind her at a slim young gentleman, with curly blond hair and a neatly groomed mustache, standing in the shadows of the hall. He wore an elegant tweed suit and had a sword-stick hanging at his side. “You know Sir Rupert Gale, I think? An old friend of the Fittes family.”

  “Yes, indeed…yes. I’m sorry about the mess here,” Lockwood said. “Shall we go into the living room?”

  Ms. Fittes gave a smile. “No, no. I’d like to see where you do your work in your little agency. What a busy breakfast you’ve been having! And this tablecloth, with all these sketches…” She leaned forward to inspect them. “So quaint! So charming…well, possibly not those doodles there.”

  Lockwood was hurrying over with a spare chair. “I’m sorry. I keep telling George to stick to ghosts. Please sit, ma’am. Sir Rupert, would you care to have mine?”

  “No, no thank you. I’m good.” Sir Rupert Gale took up position at the window. He leaned back against the sink and crossed one ankle over the other.

  It was no great pleasure for us to have Sir Rupert in our house, since we knew him to be a rogue and a wealthy collector of illicit relics. His past encounters with us had been laced with the threat of violence. But in truth, having Penelope Fittes there was more disconcerting still.

  This most illustrious person sat in our private space, smiling at us. The chair that she occupied was a fold-out wicker one, rather inexpensive, with a few ectoplasm burns along the back where it had played a part in one of George’s experiments. Nevertheless, with her long limbs elegantly arranged upon it, and the sunlight shining on her emerald dress, the lady somehow made it look quite chic. She seemed at perfect ease. By contrast, we all sat (or stood) in nonplussed silence. Kipps in particular looked thoroughly mortified. He subtly insinuated himself behind the door, trying to keep out of sight.

  Lockwood shook his confusion away. “Tea, ma’am? The pot’s just brewed.”

  “Thank you, Anthony. I’ll take a cup.”

  As the necessary formalities were completed, Ms. Fittes gazed around the kitchen, her eyes taking in every detail—the remains of breakfast, the salt and iron in the corner, the door to the garden, George’s map of England on the wall. “I’ve come here to thank you,” she said. “To thank you for your services. It’s really been most kind of you.”

  “Services, ma’am?” Lockwood passed the tea over.

  “I see you’ve been reading the papers.” She indicated the front page of the Times. “You’ll have gathered that there are many changes happening in London. In particular, you may have heard that the Rotwell and Fittes agencies are entering an association. Well, I can tell you unofficially that it will be more than that. It is a merger. Rotwell’s is disgraced and in crisis; without swift action, it will fail. So, from now on it will be fully assimilated into the Fittes Agency. That means it is part of Fittes, and its executives will report to me.”

  She looked around at us, this woman who now controlled the two largest and most powerful organizations in London. “Congratulations, ma’am,” Lockwood said slowly. “That’s…really quite something.”

  “Indeed. It is an outcome for the books. Much work lies ahead for me if I’m to knock Rotwell’s into shape, but I am confident this can be done. At any rate, I am in charge of both agencies now. And I believe that I owe much of my good fortune to you.”

  It was one of those moments when everyone works so hard to look innocent and uncomprehending that the atmosphere at once becomes poisonous with knowingness and guilt. Over at the sink, Sir Rupert Gale smiled; he picked up one of George’s favorite striped mugs and considered it idly.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “I don’t quite understand. We happened to be working in a village quite nearby, yes, but as to the events at the institute, and the cause of the disaster—if, if that’s what you’re referring to—we’re in the dark, just like everyone else.”

  Ms. Fittes had an odd little laugh; I’d forgotten just how low and husky it was. “That’s all right. I’m not that silly Inspector Barnes. You don’t have to be careful with me. But there, I won’t press you. Let us just imagine, for a moment, that you saw things you were not supposed to see. Perhaps they confused you. Perhaps they still prey on your minds.”

  It was obvious what she was talking about, but having denied it at the outset, we couldn’t very well admit to anything now. Lockwood pretended to consider. “We did come upon some very frightening apparitions in the village. George in particular ran a mile from an eyeless girl—isn’t that right, George?”

  “I left her in the dust,” George said.

  The lady smiled at us. “You’re very droll. Suffice it to say that some of the Rotwell scientists—I wonder, should I
call them Fittes scientists now?—some of the workers at the institute have been talking to the police. There was mention of intruders.”

  “Five intruders,” Sir Rupert Gale said. “Count them. Fingers of one hand.”

  “Now, I don’t know precisely what it is you saw or heard,” Ms. Fittes said, “but I would advise you to cast it from your minds. Poor Steve Rotwell was an eccentric, driven man who desired strange knowledge that is forbidden to us all. What dark experiments he may have chosen to attempt in his private facility are not for us to fathom. Certainly they should be of no consequence to any law-abiding agency.”

  We sat in silence, trying to gauge her words. Up by the sink the dishcloth hung dark and quiet, too. I could see a glimpse of the jar, but no stirrings within. At least the skull was keeping out of it. That was one blessing.

  Lockwood spoke quietly. “I think I understand you. You’re requesting that we ‘forget’ anything we may or may not have seen.”

  “‘Requesting’ isn’t the word I would have chosen—but, yes, that’s right.”

  “May I ask why?”

  The lady sipped her tea. “For fifty years,” she said, “we have been at war with supernatural forces. Tampering with them, or seeking to turn them to personal gain, as the foolish Rotwell did, is a recipe for spiritual disaster. The mysteries of death are sacrosanct, and must not be explored.” Penelope Fittes regarded us. “I think you know that as well as I do. Some things are better left unknown.”

  George stirred. “Forgive me, ma’am. I don’t think that’s true. Surely knowledge of every kind is vital to us in our battle with the Problem.”

  “Dear George, you are so very young.” That husky laugh again. “I can see that such concepts might be difficult for you to grasp.”

  “No, George is right,” Lockwood said. “George is always right. We shouldn’t fear uncovering things that are shrouded in darkness. We should shine light on them. Like the lantern in your agency’s logo. That’s what an agent does, after all.”

  Ms. Fittes looked at him levelly. “Don’t tell me you’re rejecting my suggestion again?”

  “I’m afraid so….Yes, we reject your ‘request,’ or order, or whatever it is.” Lockwood’s voice was suddenly crisp. “Forgive me, but we’re not part of your organization. You can’t waltz into our kitchen and tell us what to do.”

  “Oh, but actually, we can,” the lady said. “Isn’t that right, Rupert?”

  “Certainly is, ma’am.” Sir Rupert Gale stepped forward from the window, strolled in leisurely fashion behind our backs. “For some of us,” he said, “actions will have consequences from now on.” He reached down, plucked George’s sandwich from his plate, and took an enormous bite out of it. “And for others, there will be no consequences at all. Like this. Mm, excellent bacon! And with mustard, too. Very nice.”

  “How dare you—” In an instant Lockwood was out of his chair and halfway around the table. He stopped abruptly. There’d been a flash of silver, equally fast. Sir Rupert’s sword was in his hand, the point hovering a short distance from Lockwood’s midriff. He scarcely looked at Lockwood, but chewed placidly, inspecting the crusts of the sandwich.

  “Threatening an unarmed man, are you, Sir Rupert?” George said. “Classy.”

  “You could pass me that butter knife, George,” Lockwood murmured. “That would probably be enough for me to deal with him.”

  “You are a card,” Sir Rupert Gale said.

  Penelope Fittes raised her hand. “There will be no fighting at all. This is a civilized visit. Rupert, put your sword away. Anthony, please sit down.”

  Lockwood hesitated a long time, then slowly returned to his seat. Sir Rupert Gale sheathed his sword, still chewing.

  “That’s better,” Ms. Fittes said. She gave her little laugh. “You boys! What shall I do with you? Well, the point I’m making is very simple, and I can’t see why you should have any objection to it. You have a charming little agency, and you are more than welcome to keep on doing your charming little things. But from now on, you will stick to the investigations that suit you better—the small hauntings that so plague our society. There will be no more silliness like this”—she pointed to George’s poster on the wall—“no more idle speculation, no more getting above your intellectual station. You, dear George, have always been full of foolish fancies. It would serve you better to forget them and spend a bit of time on useful matters. Your appearance, for instance. Tidy yourself up! Go out and meet a girl, make friends.”

  “Starting up an acquaintance with a stick of deodorant wouldn’t go amiss, either,” Sir Rupert Gale said. He patted George’s shoulder.

  George sat there, impassive.

  “Don’t look so serious, all of you!” Penelope Fittes smiled around at us. “You have all the makings of a perfect company, albeit in miniature. A stout and sturdy researcher—that’s George. And Lockwood, of course—the resolute man of action. And you even have a perfect secretary and typist in sweet Ms. Munro here. Not perhaps the bravest agent, from what my new colleagues at Rotwell’s tell me, but charming to look at—”

  “That’s enough!” It was my voice. My chair fell back; I was on my feet. “You know nothing about Holly—or any of us. Leave her alone!”

  “Oh, Miss Carlyle.” The lady turned to me, then, and for the first time I felt the full ferocity of her smile. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you didn’t take me up on my offer the other week. We could have done great things together. But there we are, there’s no use crying over missed opportunities…which brings me to you, Mr. Kipps.”

  Thus for the first time Penelope Fittes acknowledged the existence of Quill Kipps, who stood behind the door, shrinking back against the trash can as if trying to compress himself out of existence. As she turned her smile on him, he flinched.

  “I hear you’ve been busy, too, Quill,” she said, “frolicking around with spectacles that don’t belong to you. What fun. I hope you’ve enjoyed spending time with your new friends. But in all your excitement, don’t forget the important thing, which is that by your own choice you are an outcast from my agency, and henceforth barred from all significant work and status. Backsliders like you will not be tolerated, and I shall make an example of you. Your pension will be confiscated; your reputation destroyed. I will see to it that you never work for any reputable psychic investigation company again.”

  “It’s all right, Kipps,” Lockwood said. “You can work for us, if you want. We’re not reputable.”

  Kipps said nothing; he was very pale, his nose and lips a purplish blue. He looked almost dead from fear and mortification.

  “Well, I’d better be going,” Penelope Fittes said. “There’s so much to be done….You know, life is strange, isn’t it, Anthony? You refused my earlier offer—yet now, inadvertently, you’ve done me more of a favor than I could ever have imagined. Thank you for the tea.” She rose, looking around the kitchen a final time. “This is such a nice little house. So charming, so vulnerable. Have a lovely morning.”

  With that she went out. By the window, Sir Rupert Gale finished George’s sandwich. Then he took a dish towel from the draining board, wiped the grease from his hands, and dropped the cloth into the sink. Smiling at us, he left the room. We heard the front door close, his footsteps fade on the path outside; shortly afterward, Ms. Fittes’s car purred away into the bright spring day.

  We all remained exactly where we were, sitting, standing, shrouded in silence—Lockwood in his chair, George and Holly on either side of the table, me at the far end, Kipps by the door. No one looked at anyone else, but we were all aware of how still the others were, how rigid. We stayed there, joined together by a little web of shock.

  Then Lockwood laughed. The spell broke—we all stirred, as though waking from a dream. We looked at him where he sat, smiling broadly, eyes glittering.

  “Well,” he said, “they’ve made their position pretty clear, haven’t they? We’re supposed to keep our noses out of this.”

 
; Kipps shifted his feet as if they pained him. George coughed slightly.

  “So let’s have a show of hands,” Lockwood went on. “Who agrees that we should be obedient little agents, do what she says, and keep our noses clean?”

  He looked around at us. None of us said a thing.

  “Okay.” Lockwood straightened the Thinking Cloth, making it nice and neat. “That’s good to know. So, hands up, whoever thinks that in fact we ought to do the opposite of what she said. Whoever thinks that since Penelope has chosen to take the gloves off so completely, we are quite within our rights to make her the target of our subsequent investigations? No matter what threats she and that preening cad might make.”

  We all silently raised our hands. Even Kipps, though he made it look as if he was really intending to scratch the back of his head and only did it as an afterthought, with a tentative, half-bent arm. All of us raised them, there in that room where the spring sun shone brightly through the window.

  “Excellent,” Lockwood said. “Thank you. I’m glad, because that’s what I think, too. Let’s clear up breakfast. George, why don’t you put the kettle on? It’s time for Lockwood and Company to get to work.”

  Two minutes later I was standing at the sink, doing the dishes, staring out at nothing, when I noticed a green glow coming from behind the dishcloth. I flipped it away—to find the ghost in the jar watching me. For once, its face was only mildly repulsive. It looked very sober and serious. “Nice speech from Lockwood, there,” the skull said. “Very prettily done. I could almost believe for a minute you weren’t doomed. Which I suppose was his intention. So…fill me in. I caught a peek from under that cloth. Who was that who just came in?”

  “Penelope Fittes.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Head of the Fittes Agency. And ruler of all London, it now appears—in her own mind, at least. Get with the beat. I thought you knew that.”

  “Oh, I’m just a poor old skull, I am. A bit slow on the uptake. So that’s Penelope Fittes, is it? Head of Fittes House? Granddaughter of old Marissa who started it all?”