Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter Ten: The Bloody Footprints at Fifty-Four Hanover Square

Charlotte blew out her cheeks, stared at his lowered head. What was there to say? "It's okay..." She began. "Not always so easy. I suppose I do find sometimes that she-"

Lockwood straightened suddenly. "Great." he said. "And look, here's George."

Here was George, his stocky figure scampering across the street. His shirt was untucked, his glasses fogged, his baggy trousers spattered with water. He had a shabby rucksack slung over his shoulder, and his rapier swung behind him like a broken tail. He splashed breathlessly to a halt.

Charlotte looked at him. "You've got cobwebs in your hair."

"All part of the job. I found something."

George always finds something. It's one of his best qualities. "Murder?"

He had that glitter in his eye, a hard light, diamond-keen, that told the other two his researches had borne exciting fruit. "Yep - so much for that old biddy claiming her daddy's house had never seen a spot of violence. It's bloody murder, pure and simple."

Lockwood grinned. "Excellent. I've got the key. Char's got your kit. Let's get out of this wind and hear the grisly details."

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Whatever else she may have been, Miss Fiona Wintergarden was not a liar. Her house was splendid, every room a florid testament to her wealth and status. It was a tall building, slender in width, but extending backwards a good distance from the square. The rooms were high-ceilinged and rectangular, sumptuously decorated with ornate plaster, and patterned wallpapers featuring oriental flowers and birds. Heavy curtains cocooned the windows; display cabinets were set against the walls. One room on the ground floor was lined with dozens of small dark paintings, as neatly regimented as lines of waiting soldiers. Charlotte found a splendid library; elsewhere bedrooms, bathrooms and corridors all maintained the opulent feel. Only at the attic level, where the walls were suddenly plain whitewash, and a half-dozen tiny servants rooms clustered beneath the eaves, did the luxurious skin peel back to reveal the bare bone and sinew of the house beneath.

Of all it's features it was the stairwell that most concerned them, and here again their client had told the truth. It was a remarkably elegant construction and the dark heart of the building. Approaching from the front door, they almost immediately came upon it: a great oval cavity cut right up through the house. The stairs hugged the right side of the oval, tight against the wall, curling steeply anticlockwise to the level above. On the left side, slim banisters arced round, cordoning off the stairwell from the hall; beyond them, a flight of steps led down into the basement. Standing in the hall - or on each landing - Charlotte looked up to see the curl of the stairs repeated again and again until you reached a great oval skylight at the attic, or down to the black - and white- tiled flooring of the kitchen basement below.

None of them liked those tiles, which looked very clean and scrubbed. It was there that the night-watch boy's body had been found.

Aside from the skylight high above, the landings and stairwell had no access to natural light. The effect was of an inward-looking space, heavy and silent and turned towards the past, with little connection to the outside world. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the electric lanterns, set in floral sconces at intervals along the walls, were already on. They emitted a cold and greasy glare.

The first thing that the agents did, while it was still light, was give the house the once-over. They went through it systematically, in silence, listening as their footsteps rang on the varnished floor-boards. Readings were made, temperatures were noted. They took turns using their psychic senses. It was too early to get anything spectacular, but it was worth checking just in case.