Jonathan Stroud - The Dagger in the Desk

Lockwood and I stared at each other, wide-eyed.

‘Oh, you know what George is like,’ Lockwood said. ‘He’s probably dropped an encyclopaedia on his toe.’

Even so, he was already running.

Well, it wasn’t a single encyclopaedia that was the problem, as we discovered when we burst into the library. To aid his reading George had evidently taken a lantern from his bag and set it burning inside the iron circle, and by its flickering light we saw a startling scene. Almost all the books that had been so neatly arranged around the shelves had been ripped out and hurled across the room. They lay scattered every which way, spines up, spines down, pages ruffling and twitching. The only spot free of them was the space inside the iron chains, and it was here that George was crouching, white-faced, hands crossed protectively over his head.

‘I know you’re an avid reader, George,’ Lockwood remarked, ‘but this is a bit messy even for y—’

‘Watch out!’ George’s cry came too late. Even as he spoke, a heavy hardback book struck Lockwood on the side of the head, sending him toppling to the floor. And now a host of others were rising into the air, carried by a random, unseen force. They whizzed this way and that, thumping into walls, bouncing off the windows. I dived to the side: one shot straight past me and crashed against a shelf. All across the room, books were shifting, shelves rattling, chair- and table-legs scraping as they moved across the floor. On the plinth beside the windows, the marble bust of Ernest Potts was shaking violently, as if it were about to burst. I bent down beside Lockwood, who lay on his side, half dazed.

‘I think I know who it is!’ George called. ‘He hates Potts – that’s why he’s come back and—’ He ducked as a book spun viciously past his nose.

I looked desperately around the room. The violence of the attack was escalating. More and more objects were beginning to move.

First things first. I needed to get Lockwood into the circle. I grabbed him by the arms, and began to pull him across the room. It wasn’t easy: he’s bigger than me and was carrying a lot of kit, and the whirling books that struck me made things worse. George jumped over the chains and sprang to help me. He bent towards Lockwood. As he did so, there was a disturbance in the air behind him. Glimmering threads of other-light appeared. They grew and melded, fusing into a tall thin shape that reached for George.

I let go of Lockwood’s hand, tore my rapier from my belt and swung it over George’s head. The iron blade cut straight through the glowing form. The figure vanished. The rushing air went still. All across the library, books dropped crashing to the ground.

A moment later we’d got Lockwood inside the chains, and were sprawled there, gasping. Lockwood was sitting up now, with a bad bruise on his temple. He still looked a trifle dazed.

‘So you think you know the identity of our ghost, George?’ I said, once I could speak.

‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘I reckon. I found it in a history of the school. His name was Harold Roach, and he was caretaker here, almost a hundred years ago. He’d been badly wounded in the First World War – one arm shot off, and injured in the leg as well. So he was an unlucky guy, but it sounds like he was already a nasty piece of work. He used to stalk around the school terrorizing the pupils. Apparently he always carried an old army knife, and he’d wave it at any kid who crossed him, threatening to cut off their ears.’

‘Ah, the great British education system,’ Lockwood said. ‘Made us what we are.’

‘There was also speculation that he used to steal money from the school funds,’ George went on, ‘though nothing was ever proved. Anyway, it all changed when this Ernest Potts became headmaster.’ He jerked his thumb towards the bust beside the window. ‘He wasn’t having any truck with caretaker Roach. Seems he confronted him – more or less accused him of nicking the cash. Roach denied it, but when Potts threatened to bring in the police, the man promptly slipped away and vanished. He was never found. Everyone assumed he’d scarpered with the money.’

‘Or else,’ Lockwood said softly, ‘he’s still here.’ There was a brief silence.

‘That all fits in with what I sensed too,’ I said. I told them about my experiences with the dagger and, briefly, the figure I’d seen in the corridor. ‘I think he hid somewhere in the school – the place where he was stashing the money he stole. Maybe he did plan to slip away with it, but for some reason was prevented from doing so. As for where he is, I think we know the answer to that too.’

‘There are two storerooms, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘One’s full-size, the other’s little more than a cupboard: it doesn’t go far back at all. Lucy saw the ghost go inside. There’s plenty of space behind it for a hidden room.’

George nodded. ‘That’s it, then. That’s where Harold Roach will be.’ He reached wearily for his bag. ‘So let’s get on with it, shall we – before his ghost comes back.’

Soon afterwards we had assembled in the passage, ready for the final part of the investigation. We’d checked our kit. We had our rapiers, salt-bombs and canisters of iron. We had our chains. We had our explosive magnesium flares that shouldn’t really be used in confined spaces on account of setting fire to things. We had our bags of silver seals to use on the Source when we found it. Yep, we were all sorted, raring to go. Aside, that is, from Lockwood’s continued grogginess, and my sense of overwhelming fear whenever I looked at those storeroom doors. I remembered that little wheedling voice, calling me in.

George hitched up his belt, which had sagged slightly under his tummy. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re clearly not up to this, Lockwood, and Lucy’s understandably edgy after what happened to her out here. So how about I go in first?’

I looked at him askance. ‘Really? Sure you’re OK with that?’ George isn’t usually the one who leads the way.

He chuckled. ‘Trust me.’

‘Nice and quiet, then, George,’ Lockwood said.

George raised his rapier. He pulled at the left-hand door – the one to the larger storeroom. It swung slowly open. He aimed his torch inside. His circle of light passed over vacuum cleaners, paper towels, tins of paint… everything exactly as before. George stepped into the room. Lockwood and I followed. We were calm, silent and professional, moving with panther-like stealth.

‘There,’ George whispered. ‘Nothing to worry about so far.’ He swung his torch to the side, gave a yell like a howler monkey, and leaped back a clear metre, colliding with Lockwood and me. We all careered back into a shelf. There was an almighty crash and splintering as the shelf snapped and we toppled to the ground. Paint tins and toilet rolls bounded and trundled out across the floor.

We struggled to our feet. Three frantic torches spun light around the room.

‘Oh,’ George said. ‘It’s all right. Relax, everyone. It was just a mop.’

‘What?’ Lockwood and I both stared at him.

‘I thought it was a very thin ghost. But it’s only a mop. Look! It’s got the floppy bit at the top. I ask you. Who does that? Who stores a mop upside-down?’

‘George—’ I began.

‘Wait!’ Lockwood was staring at the wall. ‘Look at the panelling! It’s floor to ceiling here! Everywhere else in the school it only goes halfway up. Behind this wall is the store cupboard, which we know only goes back a few feet. So these panels would be the perfect place for a hidden door.’

George frowned. ‘We’ve got crowbars. Let’s smash our way in.’

‘Finding the lever or switch would be easier.’ Lockwood placed his hands on the panelling and instantly jerked them away. ‘Ow – it’s cold!’