Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co - The Whispering Skull

Lockwood had been tapping his own fingers impatiently on his knee. ‘Yes, and . . .’

‘And we found an unexpected headstone in the grass.’

There was a silence. ‘How d’you mean, “unexpected”?’ I asked.

Mr Joplin flourished the handwritten grid. ‘It’s a burial that’s not recorded in the official lists,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be there.’

‘One of our Sensitives found it,’ Saunders said. His face had grown suddenly serious. ‘She immediately became ill and couldn’t continue with her work. Two other psychics investigated the headstone. They each complained of dizziness, of piercing headaches. One said that she sensed something watching her, something so wicked that she could hardly move. None of them wanted to go within ten feet of that little stone.’ He sniffed. ‘Course, it’s hard to know just how seriously to take all that. You know what psychics are like.’

‘Indeed,’ Lockwood said drily. ‘Being one myself.’

‘Now me ,’ Saunders went on, ‘I haven’t a psychic bone in my body. And I’ve got my silver charm here too, to keep me safe.’ He patted the hatpin on his trilby. ‘So what do I do? I nip over to the stone, bend down, have a look. And when I scrape the moss and lichen off, I find two words cut deep into the granite.’ His voice had dropped to a throaty whisper. ‘Two words.’

Lockwood waited. ‘Well, what were they?’

Mr Saunders moistened his narrow lips. He swallowed audibly; he seemed reluctant to speak. ‘A name,’ he whispered. ‘But not just any name.’ He hunched forwards on the sofa, his long bony legs jutting precariously over the teacups. Lockwood, George and I leaned in close. A curious atmosphere of dread had invaded the room. Mr Joplin, all of a flutter, lost control of his papers again and dropped several on the carpet. Outside the windows a cloud seemed to have passed over the sun; the light was drab and cold.

The excavator took a deep breath. His whisper rose to a sudden terrible crescendo. ‘Does Edmund Bickerstaff mean anything to you?’ The words echoed around us, bouncing off the ghost-goads and spirit-charms that lined the walls. We sat there. The echoes faded.

‘In all honesty, no,’ Lockwood said.

Mr Saunders sat back on the sofa. ‘No – to be fair, I’d never heard of him either. But Joplin here, whose speciality it is to poke his nose down odd and unsavoury byways of the past, he’d heard the name. Hadn’t you, eh?’ He nudged the small man. ‘And it makes him nervous.’

Mr Joplin laughed weakly, made a great business of re-adjusting the mess of papers on his lap. ‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say that, Mr Saunders. I’m cautious , Mr Lockwood. Cautious, is all. And I know enough about Dr Edmund Bickerstaff to recommend we get agency help before disinterring this mystery burial.’

‘You intend to dig it up, then?’ Lockwood said.

‘There are strong psychic phenomena associated with the site,’ Saunders said. ‘It must be made safe as soon as possible. Preferably tonight.’

‘Excuse me,’ I said. Something had been bothering me. ‘If you know it’s dangerous, why not excavate it during the day, like you do the others? Why do you need to bring us in?’

‘New DEPRAC guidelines. We have a legal obligation to bring in agents for all graves that may contain a Type Two Visitor, and since the government funds this extra cost, these agents must carry out their work at night, so they can confirm our claims.’

‘Yes, but who is this Bickerstaff?’ George asked. ‘What’s so frightening about him?’

For answer, Joplin rummaged among his papers again. He brought out a yellowed A4 sheet, unfolded it and turned it towards us. It was an enlarged photocopy of part of a nineteenth-century newspaper, all narrow columns and closely printed text. In the centre was a rather smudged engraving of a thickset man with upright collar, heavy sideburns and a large bottlebrush moustache. Aside from a slightly brutish quality about the mouth, it could have been any typical mid-Victorian gentleman. Underneath were the words:

HAMPSTEAD HORROR

TERRIBLE DISCOVERY AT SANATORIUM

‘ That’s Edmund Bickerstaff,’ Joplin said. ‘And as you’ll discover from this article in the Hampstead Gazette , dated 1877, he’s been dead and gone a long time. Now, it seems, he’s reappeared.’

‘Please tell us all.’ Up until now Lockwood’s body language had been one of polite lack of interest. I could tell he was repelled by Saunders and bored by Joplin. Now, suddenly, his posture had changed. ‘Take some more tea, Mr Joplin? Try a piece of Swiss roll, Mr Saunders? Home-made, they are. Lucy made them.’

‘Thank you, I will.’ Mr Joplin nibbled a slice. ‘I’m afraid many details about Dr Bickerstaff are sketchy. I have not had time to research him. But it seems he was a medical practitioner, treating nervous disorders at Green Gates Sanatorium on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Previously he’d been an ordinary family doctor, but his practice went to the bad. There was some scandal, and he had to shut it down.’

‘Scandal?’ I said. ‘What kind of scandal?’

‘It’s not clear. Apparently he gained a reputation for certain unwholesome activities. There were whispers of witchcraft, of dabbling in forbidden arts. Even talk of grave-robbing. The police were involved, but nothing was ever proved. Bickerstaff was able to go on working at this private sanatorium. He lived in a house in the hospital grounds – until one winter’s night, late in 1877.’

Joplin smoothed the paper out with his small white hands, and consulted it a moment.

‘It seems that Bickerstaff had certain associates,’ he went on; ‘like-minded men and women who gathered at his house at night. It was rumoured that they dressed in hooded robes, lit candles and performed . . . Well, we do not know what they were up to. On such occasions, the doctor’s servants were ordered to leave the house, which they were only too pleased to do. Bickerstaff apparently had a ferocious temper, and no one dared cross him. Well, on 13 December 1877, just such a meeting took place; the servants were dismissed, with pay, and told to return two days later. As they departed, the carriages of Bickerstaff’s guests were seen arriving.’

‘Two days off work?’ Lockwood said. ‘That’s a long time.’

‘Yes, the meeting was intended to last the full weekend.’ Joplin looked down at the paper. ‘But something happened. According to the Gazette , the following night some of the attendants at the sanatorium passed the house. It was quiet and dark. They assumed Bickerstaff must have gone away. Then one of them noticed movement in an upstairs window: the net curtains were twitching; there were all sorts of little shudders and ripples, as if someone – or something – were feebly tugging at them from below.’

‘Ooh,’ I breathed. ‘We’re not going to like this, are we?’

‘No, girlie, you’re not.’ Mr Saunders had been munching another slice of cake, but he spoke up now. ‘Well,’ he added, ‘depends on your state of mind. Albert here loves it. He’s fascinated by this old stuff.’ He brushed crumbs off his lap and onto the carpet.

‘Go on, Mr Joplin,’ Lockwood said.

‘Some of the attendants,’ Joplin said, ‘were all for breaking into the house there and then; others – recalling the stories surrounding Dr Bickerstaff – were all for minding their own business. And while they were standing outside, arguing about it, they noticed that the movement in the curtains had redoubled, and suddenly they saw long dark shapes running along the windowsill on the inside.’