Read Online Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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who’d been rejected by six agencies in seven days? It was hard to tell.
I set off up the road.
Number 35 Portland Row was a white-fronted residence of four floors, with faded green shutters and pink flowers in the window boxes. Even more than its neighbours it had a faint air of dilapidation. Every surface looked as if it needed a lick of paint, or possibly just a clean. A small wooden sign clamped to the outside of the railing read:
A. J. LOCKWOOD & CO., INVESTIGATORS .
AFTER DARK, RING BELL AND WAIT BEYOND THE IRON LINE .
I paused for a moment, thinking wistfully of the smart townhouse of Tendy & Sons, of the spacious offices of Atkins and Armstrong; above all, of the glittering glass Rotwell building on Regent Street . . . But none of those interviews had worked out for me. I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Like my appearance, this would simply have to do.
Pushing open a wonky metal gate, I stepped onto a narrow path of broken tiles. On my right a steep flight of steps led down to a basement yard, a shady space half overhung with ivy and filled with unkempt plants and potted trees. There was a narrow line of iron tiles embedded across the path, and from a post beside this hung a large bell with a dangling wooden clapper. Ahead was a black-painted door.
Ignoring the bell, I stepped over the line and knockedsharply on the door. After an interval a short, fat, tallow-haired youth wearing large round spectacles looked out.
‘Oh, another one,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d finished. Or are you Arif’s new girl?’
I gazed at him. ‘Who’s Arif?’
‘Runs the corner store. He normally sends someone over with doughnuts about this time. You don’t seem to have any doughnuts.’ He looked disappointed.
‘No. I have a rapier.’
The youth sighed. ‘So I guess you’re another candidate. Name?’
‘Lucy Carlyle. Are you Mr Lockwood?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Well, can I come in?’
‘Yeah. The last girl’s just gone down. From the look of her, she won’t be very long.’
Even as he spoke, a scream of the utmost terror rang out from inside the house, and echoed off the ivy-clad walls of the yard below. Birds rose from trees up and down the street. I jerked back in shock, hands moving automatically to the hilt of my sword. The scream collapsed into a whimpering gargle and presently died away. I stared wide-eyed at the youth in the doorway, who hadn’t stirred.
‘Ah, there we are,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I say? Well, you’re next up. Come in.’
Neither the boy nor the scream instilled me with muchconfidence, and I was half inclined to leave. But after two weeks in London, I was almost out of options; mess up here and I’d soon be signing for the night watch with all the other no-hope kids. Besides, there was something in the manner of the youth, a subtle impudence in the way he stood, that told me he half expected me to run. I wasn’t having that. So I stepped swiftly past him, and entered a cool, wide hallway.
It was floored with wooden tiles and lined with bookshelves of dark mahogany. The shelves held a mass of ethnic masks and other artefacts – pots and icons, brightly decorated shells and gourds. A narrow key table stood just inside the door with a lantern on it, its base shaped like a crystal skull. Beyond that sat a vast, chipped plant pot stuffed with umbrellas, walking sticks and rapiers. I halted beside a rack of coats.
‘Hold on a tick,’ the boy said. He remained waiting by the open door.
He was a little older than me, and not quite my height, though a good deal stockier. He had podgy, rather bland features, nondescript except for a prominently squared jaw. Behind his glasses, his eyes were very blue. His sandy hair, which in texture reminded me of a horse’s tail, flopped heavily across his brow. He wore white trainers, a pair of faded jeans, and a loosely tucked shirt, bulging around the midriff.
‘Any minute now,’ he said.
From deeper inside the house a murmur of voices
I set off up the road.
Number 35 Portland Row was a white-fronted residence of four floors, with faded green shutters and pink flowers in the window boxes. Even more than its neighbours it had a faint air of dilapidation. Every surface looked as if it needed a lick of paint, or possibly just a clean. A small wooden sign clamped to the outside of the railing read:
A. J. LOCKWOOD & CO., INVESTIGATORS .
AFTER DARK, RING BELL AND WAIT BEYOND THE IRON LINE .
I paused for a moment, thinking wistfully of the smart townhouse of Tendy & Sons, of the spacious offices of Atkins and Armstrong; above all, of the glittering glass Rotwell building on Regent Street . . . But none of those interviews had worked out for me. I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Like my appearance, this would simply have to do.
Pushing open a wonky metal gate, I stepped onto a narrow path of broken tiles. On my right a steep flight of steps led down to a basement yard, a shady space half overhung with ivy and filled with unkempt plants and potted trees. There was a narrow line of iron tiles embedded across the path, and from a post beside this hung a large bell with a dangling wooden clapper. Ahead was a black-painted door.
Ignoring the bell, I stepped over the line and knockedsharply on the door. After an interval a short, fat, tallow-haired youth wearing large round spectacles looked out.
‘Oh, another one,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d finished. Or are you Arif’s new girl?’
I gazed at him. ‘Who’s Arif?’
‘Runs the corner store. He normally sends someone over with doughnuts about this time. You don’t seem to have any doughnuts.’ He looked disappointed.
‘No. I have a rapier.’
The youth sighed. ‘So I guess you’re another candidate. Name?’
‘Lucy Carlyle. Are you Mr Lockwood?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Well, can I come in?’
‘Yeah. The last girl’s just gone down. From the look of her, she won’t be very long.’
Even as he spoke, a scream of the utmost terror rang out from inside the house, and echoed off the ivy-clad walls of the yard below. Birds rose from trees up and down the street. I jerked back in shock, hands moving automatically to the hilt of my sword. The scream collapsed into a whimpering gargle and presently died away. I stared wide-eyed at the youth in the doorway, who hadn’t stirred.
‘Ah, there we are,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I say? Well, you’re next up. Come in.’
Neither the boy nor the scream instilled me with muchconfidence, and I was half inclined to leave. But after two weeks in London, I was almost out of options; mess up here and I’d soon be signing for the night watch with all the other no-hope kids. Besides, there was something in the manner of the youth, a subtle impudence in the way he stood, that told me he half expected me to run. I wasn’t having that. So I stepped swiftly past him, and entered a cool, wide hallway.
It was floored with wooden tiles and lined with bookshelves of dark mahogany. The shelves held a mass of ethnic masks and other artefacts – pots and icons, brightly decorated shells and gourds. A narrow key table stood just inside the door with a lantern on it, its base shaped like a crystal skull. Beyond that sat a vast, chipped plant pot stuffed with umbrellas, walking sticks and rapiers. I halted beside a rack of coats.
‘Hold on a tick,’ the boy said. He remained waiting by the open door.
He was a little older than me, and not quite my height, though a good deal stockier. He had podgy, rather bland features, nondescript except for a prominently squared jaw. Behind his glasses, his eyes were very blue. His sandy hair, which in texture reminded me of a horse’s tail, flopped heavily across his brow. He wore white trainers, a pair of faded jeans, and a loosely tucked shirt, bulging around the midriff.
‘Any minute now,’ he said.
From deeper inside the house a murmur of voices
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