Lockwood & Co by Jonathan Stroud Page A

can tell from the wood panelling on the wall.’
    ‘Is it close to the new library?’
    ‘Not far. Just along the corridor.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Whitaker,’ Lockwood said. ‘That’s fine. We’ll be at St Simeon’s an hour before dusk. You will leave the door open, I hope?’
    ‘Certainly . . .’ The little man hesitated. ‘But I trust you won’t want me to . . .’
    Lockwood grinned. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look around on our own.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘Well, goodbye. We’ll report to you first thing tomorrow.’
    ‘So what do we think?’ I said as we watched our client totter down the path and hurry off up the road. ‘A Poltergeist?’
    Lockwood shook his head. ‘Poltergeists chuck things around, but they don’t take bodily form, do they? And Whitaker saw a shadow.’
    George had taken off his glasses and was polishing them dubiously. ‘I don’t like it,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like it at all. This is a ghost strong enough to throw sharp objects about before it’s even dark! We’re going to have to be careful.’
    ‘Oh, you worry too much, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’ll all be fine.’ He stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Now, who wants another piece of toast?’
    The day grew late. We worked in our basement office, sorting through our kit. Ghosts hate iron and silver, and they don’t much like salt either, so most of our equipment involves combinations of these. I tested the links on our protective iron chains; George refilled our canisters of salt and iron filings; Lockwood handed us each an explosive magnesium flare. We checked our work-belts, and did a final bit of sword practice in the rapier room. After that, we wolfed down some sandwiches, shouldered our bags and set off for Hammersmith. It was a squally, gloomy afternoon, and the wind blew leaves and litter across the road in little gusts. The ghost-lamps were already on.
    St Simeon’s Academy for Talented Youngsters turned out to be a rambling set of unattractive buildings situated not far from the motorway flyover. The main school house, stained dark from years of London smoke, was a mess of steep roofs, gothic turrets, and narrow windows that glinted blackly as we approached. Newer, equally ugly wings in glass and concrete stretched either side.
    George considered it glumly. ‘That place is simply
packed
with ghosts,’ he said. ‘I can just tell.’
    ‘Nothing we can’t handle,’ Lockwood said. ‘Right, here’s the door.’
    A single light burned in the front porch, and the door creaked open to the touch. Lockwood stepped in first; I followed. George came along behind.
    We looked around.
    We were in a tiled foyer, with kids’ art on the walls, and a receptionist’s desk along one wall. The air had that familiar tang of floor polish, socks and stale dinners that most schools share. Ahead of us a long panelled corridor stretched away, punctuated by heavy doors. The shadows were lengthening now; the light was almost gone. The end of the corridor could not be seen.
    We stood there, using our individual Talents. Lockwood and George looked for ghostly traces. I listened for spectral sounds.
    All very quiet. Nothing could be heard. Or
almost
nothing, because just for a moment I thought I caught a faint metallic rattling . . .
    Gone. It wasn’t anywhere close. Not yet.
    ‘All right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Let’s push on. We’ll go straight to Class 2A.’
    George held up his hand. ‘Wait a sec, Lockwood. First rule of investigation: always establish a safe base before going deep into a haunted building. We should rig up a strong iron circle here, so we can retreat inside it if anything goes wrong.’
    Lockwood frowned. ‘No point putting iron down here. We’re miles from the ghost. It’s a waste of a chain.’
    George glared at him from behind his little spectacles. ‘Dozens of agents get killed every year because they don’t bother with the correct precautions! It won’t take a minute, and