The Hollow Boy

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Ah! Describe them.”

  “They are the marks of bare feet ascending the stairs. They are spattered about with blood. They appear sometime after midnight, last several hours, and fade before dawn.”

  “On which part of the staircase are they located?”

  “They begin in the basement and stretch certainly as high as the third floor.” The lady frowned. “Perhaps higher.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The prints apparently become less clear as they go up. Near the basement the full outline of the foot is visible, then the stains become smaller—it’s just the toes and balls of the feet you see.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Someone going on tiptoe?”

  “Or running,” George suggested.

  Miss Wintergarden gave a shrug, shoulder blades slicing against cardigan. “I am only reporting what the children said, and their accounts are incoherent. You would do better to look for yourselves.”

  “We shall,” Lockwood said. “Are the prints found elsewhere in the building?”

  “No.”

  “What surface do the stairs have?”

  “Wooden boards.”

  “No carpet or rugs?”

  “None.”

  He tapped his fingers together. “Do you know of a possible cause for this haunting? Some tragedy or crime of passion that occurred in the house?”

  The lady bristled. She could not have been more shocked if Lockwood had sprung up, vaulted over the coffee table, and punched her in the nose. “Certainly not! To my knowledge, my home has never been the site of any violent or passionate incident whatsoever.” She pushed out her meager chest defiantly.

  “I can well believe it….” Lockwood was silent for a moment, staring across at the dwindling fire. “Miss Wintergarden, when you phoned yesterday you said this was a matter of life and death. The prints you describe are certainly disturbing, but I don’t think they can be the whole story. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

  The cast of the woman’s face changed. Her haughtiness diminished; she looked both tired and wary. “Yes, there has been an…incident. You must understand that it was not my fault. The prints had never been a problem, no matter what the servants said.” She shook her head. “I acted entirely correctly. It was not my fault.”

  “Hold on. So the footprints have been appearing for some time, then?” I said.

  “Oh yes, for years.” She glared at me. Her voice carried a defensive ring. “Do not think I have been neglecting my duty, young madam! The prints, and their accompanying phenomena, have always been faint and insubstantial. And they came so very rarely. No one was ever harmed by them. Aside from the warblings of a few servants, no one even noticed they were there. In recent weeks, however, they began to be reported more frequently. Finally”—she looked away from us—“it was a nightly occurrence. So I hired three night-watch children to keep an eye on things.”

  We glanced at one another. Night-watch kids have Talent, but they’re not as strong or sensitive as agents. And they aren’t half as well armed, either.

  “You didn’t think of mentioning this to DEPRAC?” Holly Munro asked.

  “The phenomena amounted to almost nothing!” Miss Wintergarden cried. “I did not see the need to bring in agents at that stage.” She plucked at the fabric of her pullover as if it were sticking to her shoulder. “There are major hauntings all over London! You cannot trouble the authorities over every Wisp or Glimmer, and I have a reputation to keep up. I certainly did not want dirty DEPRAC boots tramping around my house.”

  Lockwood gazed at her. “So what happened?”

  She tapped a small white fist irritably against her lap; her agitation remained, but she was mastering it once more. “Well, I ask you, what did I employ the watch-children for? It was their job to ensure that things did not get out of hand. I gave them the simple task of observing the stairs, of understanding the nature of the apparition. I was sleeping in the house. Many of the servants had left, but there were still some staff upstairs. It was important we were safe…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Yes,” Lockwood said drily. “Your safety was of course paramount. Go on.”

  “After the first night—this is three days ago, Mr. Lockwood—the children reported to me while I took my breakfast. They had waited in the basement, watching the stairs. At some point after midnight, they saw the footprints appear—just as I have described them to you. The prints formed, one after the other, curling up the staircase, as if someone were slowly climbing. As they went, the pace of the prints grew faster. The children followed, but only for a short distance—to my vexation, when they reached the ground floor, they stopped and did not go on. I ask you, what good was that?”

  “Did they say why they hung back?” Lockwood asked.

  “They said the visitation was moving too fast. Also that they were scared.” The lady glared around at us. “Scared! This was their job!”

  “How old were these children, please?” I asked.

  Miss Wintergarden’s mouth twisted. “I should think nine or ten. I have no experience with the species. Well, I made no secret of my wishes that they should watch more closely the next night, and to be fair to them, they did. The following morning they came before me, white and trembling, and said that they had climbed halfway between the second and third floors before being unable to continue. A sensation of appalling terror had gripped them, they said, which grew worse the higher they got; they felt as if something were waiting for them around the bend in the staircase. There were three children, don’t forget, and all with those iron sticks they wave about. It seemed a poor excuse to me.

  “I requested they watch again the third night. One girl refused point-blank—I paid her off and sent her packing—but the other two thought they might try. You must understand that the footprints had never caused us any actual trouble. I did not for a moment dream that—”

  She broke off, reaching toward the table. Her gaunt hand hovered above the carrot cake, then veered away to pick up her cup of tea.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she said.

  Lockwood was regarding her closely. “What wasn’t your fault, Miss Wintergarden?”

  She closed her eyes. “I sleep in a bedroom on the third floor. Yesterday morning I woke early, before any of my servants were about. I came out of my room and saw a watch-stick lying on the landing. It was wedged right through the balusters, its end hanging out over the stairwell. I called, but heard nothing. So I went over to the banister, and then I saw…” She took a shaky sip of tea. “I saw…”

  George spoke feelingly to no one but himself. “I can sense this is going to make me need some cake.”

  “I saw one of the night-watch children above me, huddled on the staircase, between the third and attic floors. She had her back to the wall, and her knees drawn up, and she was rocking to and fro. When I spoke to her, she did not answer. I could not see the other—it was a boy, I do not know his name—but I noticed that the girl’s watch-stick was there on the stairs next to her, and that made me suddenly look down.” She took a short, sharp breath, as if reliving the moment of shock. “I have told you about the stairwell—how it stretches from the attic level to the basement. And he was down there, lying in shadow on the basement floor. He had fallen, and he was dead.”

  There was a long silence in the room. The veneer of superiority Miss Wintergarden had attempted to maintain throughout the interview hung from her at an angle, skewed, flapping, and distasteful, like a highly wrought gate blown off its hinges in a gale.

  Still she clung to it. “It was their job,” she said. “I paid them for the risk.”

  Lockwood had gone very still. His eyes glinted. “I hope you paid them well. Was he ghost-touched?”

  “No.”

  “Why had he fallen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where had he fallen from?”

  A bony shrug. “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Miss Wintergar
den, surely the other child could—”

  “She could say nothing, Mr. Lockwood. Nothing at all.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because she had lost her mind!” The words came out almost as a shriek; we all jerked back. The woman rocked forward, arms rigid, white hands clasped in her lap. “She has lost her mind. She says nothing. She scarcely sleeps. She goggles at the empty air, as if it would itself attack her. She is at present in a secure unit in a psychiatric hospital in north London, being tended to by DEPRAC doctors. It is a post-traumatic catatonic state, they say. The outlook is not favorable.”

  “Miss Wintergarden.” Holly Munro spoke in a brittle voice. “Those children should not have been used. It was very wrong of you. You should have called in an agency.”

  There were two red points in the lady’s cheeks. I thought she was going to erupt with fury, but she said only, “I am doing so now.”

  “From the outset.”

  “Young lady, I do not intend—”

  George stood decisively. “I was right, you know. After that story, we all need to revive ourselves. We need energy, we need nourishment. This is definitely a carrot cake moment. No—please, Miss Wintergarden, I insist.” He scooped up the cake and, like a croupier dealing cards, tipped a slice onto her plate. “There. It’ll make us all feel better.” Four others were doled out in the blink of an eye. Lockwood and I took ours. I offered a plate to Holly.

  She held up a perfectly manicured hand. “No thanks, Lucy. You tuck in. I’m good.”

  Of course she was. I sat back heavily with my plate.

  The story of the night-watch kids had cast a pall over us. We ate, each after our own fashion. Our client, pale-faced, nibbled a corner of her slice with the fastidious motions of a field mouse. I gulped mine down like an antisocial seabird. Lockwood sat in silence, frowning into the fire. Accounts of deaths at the hand of ghosts always weighed on him.

  George, unusually, had been slow to begin his cake. Something about our visitor had caught his attention. He gazed at a silvery object pinned to her pullover. It was just visible beneath her cardigan.

  “That’s a nice brooch you have there, Miss Wintergarden,” he said.

  She glanced down. “Thank you.” Her words were scarcely audible.

  “It’s a harp symbol, isn’t it?”

  “A lyre, an ancient Greek harp, yes.”

  “Does it represent something? I’m sure I’ve seen it before.”

  “It’s the symbol of the Orpheus Society, a club in London. I do charitable work for them….” She brushed cake crumbs off her fingers. “Now—Mr. Lockwood, how do you wish to proceed?”

  “With extreme care.” Lockwood roused himself; his face was serious, unsmiling. “We shall accept the case, of course, Miss Wintergarden—but the stakes are high, and I will not take unnecessary risks. I assume the house will be left empty for us this evening? You and the servants will be elsewhere?”

  “Most of them have given notice! Yes, you will have a free hand.”

  “Very well. Now, one final question. Earlier on, you mentioned certain ‘accompanying phenomena’ that had been noticed alongside the bloody footprints. What were they?”

  Miss Wintergarden frowned; the lines in the center of her brow corrugated. Going into detail was a matter of distaste for her. “I hardly remember. The footprints were the focus of the haunting.”

  “It’s not just visual things that count,” I said. “Did the night-watch hear anything? Feel anything odd, perhaps?”

  “There were sensations of panic, as I have told you; I think it was also very cold. Maybe one girl reported movement in the air—a feeling of something passing her.”

  There was nothing here that we couldn’t have predicted. It told us little. Lockwood nodded. “I see.”

  “Oh, and one child reported two rushing forms.”

  We stared at her. “What?” I said. “When were you going to mention this?”

  “I had forgotten. One of the night-watch said it; the boy, I think. It was a garbled account. I was unsure whether to take it seriously.”

  “In my experience, Miss Wintergarden,” Lockwood said, “one should always take the accounts of dead night-watch children very seriously indeed. What did the boy see?”

  Her lips pursed thin. “Two cloudy figures: one large, one small. According to him they raced, one after the other, up the stairs. Following the line of footprints. The big shape had its hand outstretched, as if to seize the smaller. The little shape—”

  “Was running,” I finished. “Running for its life.”

  “Don’t think it worked out for them, whoever it was.” George said. “Call me intuitive”—he pushed his glasses up his nose—“but I’d hazard a guess they didn’t make it.”

  “She’s an utterly awful woman,” Lockwood agreed. “Callous and ignorant and hysterical all at once. But she’s given us a good and dangerous case here, Luce, and we mustn’t mess it up.”

  I smiled happily across at him. “Suits me.”

  We were standing under the elm trees in the gardens of Hanover Square, looking toward Miss Wintergarden’s house. Number 54 was a dark, thin shard, wedged like a rotten tooth between other, indistinguishable terraced town houses on the shadowy side of the square. How elegant they should have been, with their painted facades and columned porticoes framing their neat black doors. But the recent storms had left dark stains on the stuccoed fronts, and the sidewalks and porticoes were a scattered waste of splintered twigs. No lights were on. The effect was of drabness and decay.

  It hadn’t rained since the morning, but patches of standing water studded the grass, dull as fallen coins, reflecting the gunmetal sky. A strong wind was blowing, and the naked branches of the trees did the thing all naked branches do in winter with the daylight slowly failing. They rasped and rustled like giant papery hands being rubbed together. The world was heavy with unease.

  The house waited for us on the other side of the street.

  “Reminds me of Berkeley Square,” I said. “That was dangerous, too. Probably worse. I broke my rapier, and George nearly cut your head off, but we still came out of it well.”

  I’d come out of it particularly well; it was one of my favorite cases. Perhaps this one would be even better. I felt optimistic about it, even cheerful. George was on his way, but he’d been working in the library and hadn’t yet arrived. Holly Munro was back at Portland Row, doing neat things with paper clips. For the moment it was just Lockwood and me.

  He pulled his collar up against the wind. “Berkeley Square was in summer. Nice short night to get through. This one may be a long haul. It’s only three, and I’m hungry already.” He nudged his bag with the toe of his boot. “Tell you what, though, Holly’s sandwiches look fine, don’t they?”

  “Mm,” I said. “Delicious.”

  “It was nice of her to make them.”

  “Mmm,” I said, stretching my smile wide across my face. “So nice.”

  Yes, our lovely assistant had made us sandwiches. She’d also packed our equipment bags, and though I’d carefully gone through everything again myself (when it comes to the art of staying alive, I trust nobody but me), I had to admit that she’d done an excellent job. But the best thing she’d done that day, as far as I was concerned, was stay at home. Tonight it was going to be the three of us. Like it always used to be.

  A few people were walking in the square—residents, probably, judging from their expensive coats. They glanced at us as they passed, taking stock of our swords, our dark clothes and watchful stillness, and hurried on, heads down. It was a funny thing about being an agent, something Lockwood had once said: you were admired and loathed in equal measure. After dark, you represented order and all good things. They loved to see you then. In daylight, you were an unwelcome intrusion into everyday life, a symbol of the very chaos that you kept at bay.

  “She’s a great addition, isn’t she?” Lockwood said.

  “Holly? Mm. She’s fine.”

 
“Strong-willed, I think. Not afraid to lay into that old harpy, Wintergarden. Really spoke her mind.” He had pulled back his coat and was checking the line of plastic canisters looped across his chest; at his belt, magnesium flares gleamed. “I know you had some concerns at first, Lucy….It’s been a couple of weeks. How are you getting on with Holly now?”

  I blew out my cheeks, stared at his lowered head. What was there to say? “It’s okay…” I began. “Not always so easy. I suppose I do find sometimes that she—”

  Lockwood straightened suddenly. “Great,” he said. “And look, here’s George.”

  Here was George, his stocky figure scampering across the street. His shirt was untucked, his glasses fogged, his baggy trousers spattered with water. He had a shabby backpack slung over his shoulder, and his rapier swung behind him like a broken tail. He splashed breathlessly to a halt.

  I looked at him. “You’ve got cobwebs in your hair.”

  “All part of the job. I found something.”

  George always finds something. It’s one of his best qualities. “Murder?”

  He had that glitter in his eye, a hard light, diamond-sharp, that told us his researches had borne exciting fruit. “Yep, so much for that old biddy claiming her daddy’s house had never seen a spot of violence. It’s bloody murder, pure and simple.”

  Lockwood grinned. “Excellent. I’ve got the key. Lucy’s got your tools. Let’s get out of this wind and hear the grisly details.”

  Whatever else she may have been, Miss Fiona Wintergarden was not a liar. Her house was splendid, every room a florid testament to her wealth and status. It was a tall building, slender in width, but extending back a good distance from the square. The rooms were high-ceilinged and rectangular, sumptuously decorated with ornate plaster and patterned wallpapers featuring oriental flowers and birds. Heavy curtains cocooned the windows; display cabinets were set against the walls. One room on the ground floor was lined with dozens of small, dark paintings, as neatly regimented as lines of waiting soldiers. We found a splendid library; elsewhere bedrooms, bathrooms, and corridors all maintained the opulent feel. Only at the attic level, where the walls were suddenly plain whitewash, and a half dozen tiny servants’ rooms clustered beneath the eaves, did the luxurious skin peel back to reveal the bare bone and sinew of the house beneath.