Lockwood by Jonathan Stroud

Author:Jonathan Stroud
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Childrens Publishers UK

17

When visiting a property with such a chequered history as the Bickerstaff ruin, you might think it was safest to stick to daylight hours. This (the sensible option) was sadly impractical for us, for a number of reasons. The first was that, after a night like we’d just had, we didn’t get out of bed till noon, and it took much of the afternoon to prepare our supplies and ring the appropriate authorities to get access to the deserted house. The second was George’s insistence on nipping down to the Chertsey Records Office in search of ‘The Confessions of Mary Dulac’, that old document by one of Bickerstaff’s associates. George wanted to do this as soon as possible; he hoped it might give us some insight into the horror that had taken place at Bickerstaff’s place all those years ago. Also, he figured it was only a matter of time before Bobby Vernon read the same old newspapers he’d found, and made precisely the same connections.

The final (and most important) reason why we didn’t get there until after sundown was me – or rather the question of my peculiar Talents. After our chat with the skull, Lockwood’s faith in these was now sky-high. He told me as much as we worked in the office together, collecting equipment for the operation.

‘There’s no question about it, Luce,’ he said, setting out a neat row of salt bombs along the floor. ‘Your Sensitivity is phenomenal, and we’ve got to give you every chance to use it. Who knows what you might pick up in the Bickerstaff house after dark? And I don’t just mean by Listening – you could use your sense of Touch as well.’

‘Yeah,’ I said heavily. ‘Maybe.’ You might detect that I didn’t speak with wild enthusiasm. It’s true that I can sometimes pick up impressions of the past by touching objects that possess a psychic residue, but that doesn’t mean it’s always a pleasant thing to do. It was pretty clear that the Bickerstaff residence was unlikely to provide me with many jolly experiences, no matter how chirpy Lockwood might be right now.

I couldn’t share much of his good humour that afternoon, anyway. Once again the daylight had had the effect of lessening the thrill of the whispering skull’s words, and I found myself increasingly uncomfortable that we were following a trail it had set for us. The first things I did when I came downstairs were to close the valve in the bung, and cover the jar with a cloth. I didn’t want the ghost to hear or see us unless we willed it. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling that the damage had already been done.

I finished emptying our work-belts onto my desk, and began sorting through the thermometers and torches, the candles and matchboxes, the vials of lavender water and all the rest, making sure everything was in working order. Lockwood was humming peaceably to himself as he set about restocking our supplies of iron. That

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