<p>The Dagger in the Desk</p>

It was a winter�s morning, the day after the messy conclusion to the Case of the Floating Fingers, and Lockwood, George and I had assembled in the kitchen for a very late breakfast. Rapiers, chains and salt-bombs lay scattered on the table. George�s jacket, peppered with ectoplasm burns, hung steaming on a chair. A severed hand, securely contained in a silver-glass case, sat by the cornflakes, ready for disposal later. This sort of thing is normal in our house, and it didn�t spoil our appetite. We were just helping ourselves to another round of tea and toast when there was a clanging on the bell outside.

�Could be a client,� Lockwood said. �Go see who it is, Lucy.�

I frowned. �Why me?�

�I�m still in my pyjamas and George�s face is covered in jam.�

They were decent points; I couldn�t argue with them. I answered the door. On the step stood a small, roundish man with a pink face and a dishevelled mop of sandy hair. He wore a brown tweed suit and a wild-eyed expression of deep horror.

�I-I�m sorry to disturb you, miss,� he said, �but I-I believe I�ve seen a ghost.�

I smiled cheerily. �Then that�s our business, sir. Come in.�

If anything, the man�s unease grew once I�d settled him on the sofa with a biscuit and a cup of tea. His fingers shook, his teeth chattered, his eyes darted from side to side as if he expected something to leap from the wall and devour him. When Lockwood (now fully clothed) and George (partially de-jammed) came in, he jumped violently, sloshing tea down the front of his shirt.

Lockwood shook his hand. �I�m Anthony Lockwood. These are my associates, George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle. How can we help you today?�

�My name,� the pink-faced man said, �is Samuel Whitaker, and I am the headmaster of St Simeon�s Academy for Talented Youngsters, a well-known school in Hammersmith. It is an old school, but much modernized over the years. Only last month, indeed, we opened a new library, and it was then� � he swallowed audibly � �that the incidents began.

�It was the children who noticed the change first,� Mr Whitaker went on. �Pupils in Class 2A. They complained of an unpleasant odour in the air. Of course, 2A is just along from the boys� toilets, so I thought nothing of it. But they also spoke of a spreading chill, a feeling of inexplicable dread � and of hearing a faint clinking sound.�

�What kind of clinking?� George asked. �Manacles? Chains?�

�I don�t know. I am an adult. I heard nothing.�

�When do these phenomena occur?�

�Always late afternoon, as the light starts fading. Anyway, yesterday things got worse. I was teaching Class 2A. Just as the pupils were packing up, complaining again of the cold and the troubling smell, something was thrown into the classroom. It smashed straight through the glass of the door, whizzed through the air, and plunged deep into the side of my desk. A knife, Mr Lockwood! A long thin knife with an antique handle! When I got over my shock, I ran outside, and looked up and down the corridor. Just for a moment I fancied I saw � out of the corner of my eye � a shadow standing by the library door: a hunched and disfigured shape. I turned my head � and the presence was gone. Yet I had the impression that something was watching me; something filled with terrible wickedness and spite�� Mr Whitaker shuddered. �That was enough for me! I have closed the school and come to you in the hope that you will help.�

�We will certainly do our best,� Lockwood said. �One question: where is the knife?�

The headmaster blinked. �It was deeply embedded in the desk and I could not pull it free. I left it when we evacuated the classroom. It will still be there.�

Lockwood clicked his tongue. �I hope so� Well, we will find out tonight. Is Class 2A in one of the original sections of the school?�

�Yes, it is a hundred years old. You 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 it�s better to be safe than sorry.�

�Well, I think we need to go straight to the heart of things and hunt the enemy out,� Lockwood said. �What do you think, Lucy?�

�I�m just wondering whether we should pay a visit to this new library,� I said. �According to Whitaker, the hauntings only began when it was built. Maybe the construction work disturbed something � perhaps that�s where we�ll find the ghost.�

Lockwood nodded slowly. �That�s not a bad point, Luce,� he said. �We�ll sneak a look in the library on the way to the classroom. Take some readings there. Speaking of which � what�s the temperature now?�

George, who�d been grumbling under his breath because we�d ignored his advice, unclipped his belt thermometer and checked the luminous display. �Sixteen degrees.�

�OK. Keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts changing.�

A sudden, unexpected fall in temperature is one sure sign of upcoming supernatural activity. Sometimes it�s a hint that saves your life. In the case of the Bay House Horror I saw the temp plunge ten degrees when I walked into that attic bathroom. It gave me just enough time to draw my sword before the Wraith stepped through the tiles.

But sixteen degrees seemed safe enough. Adjusting our bags, keeping our hands close to our belts, we set off up the corridor.

It was clearly an original part of the school, with oak panelling covering the lower half of the plastered walls. Ranks of notice boards and photographs rose almost to the ceiling. There were sports teams, prize winners and whole-school photos, with massed ranks of pupils and teachers staring at the camera. It was too dark to make out the details. To keep our senses sharp, we mostly kept our torches off � flicking them on occasionally to check the signs outside each door.

�Class 1A, IB�� Lockwood murmured. �1C� the science lab� Where is this library, anyway?�

A sound echoed in the darkness � a deep, harsh creaking, instantly cut off.

I stopped short. �Was that your stomach, George?�

He looked at me blankly. �Was what my stomach? I didn�t hear anything.�

�Nor me,� Lockwood said. �What did you get, Lucy?�

That�s my Talent, you see. I hear things other people don�t. �A horrid wrenching creak. Sort of like a rusted door hinge, or a coffin lid opening.�

�What?� George said. �And you thought that was me?�

�Your belly makes weird sounds when you�re hungry.�

He paused. �Fair enough. I suppose it does.�

�Where was this noise?� Lockwood asked.

�Somewhere up ahead, maybe. I don�t know.�

�Good. So we�re going in the right direction.�

We continued steadily, our boots ringing faintly on the wooden flooring, and soon came to the end of the main corridor. Side passages branched out left and right. Ahead of us was a prominent glazed door, somehow more modern than the ones we�d passed. There was an engraved wooden sign on the wall. Lockwood shone his torch on it.

�Ernest Potts Memorial Library,� he read. �Here we are, then.�

As he spoke, a cool breeze flowed over us, a stirring of the air. We swung our torches wildly up and down the passages, but saw nothing.

�Temperature�s down,� George said. �Eleven degrees now.�

�Rapiers at the ready,� Lockwood said. He opened the door.

Nothing jumped out at us, which is always nice. The library was large and airy, with pleasant, trendy shelves of light-coloured pine. It smelled new. Rows of neatly ordered books covered the walls. Tall windows looked out over a small, drab playing field. There was a half-moon in the sky over London, lighting the room with a feeble glow.

Wordlessly George opened his bag, took out a length of iron chain, and began laying out a protective circle in the centre of the floor. Lockwood didn�t protest. He looked and I listened for danger. We didn�t get anything.

A small plinth hung on the wall between the central windows. On it was a marble bust of a stern, well-fed, Victorian-looking man sporting an enormous pair of mutton-chop whiskers. I went to take a look.

�Ernest Potts,� I said, reading the plaque below it. �Headmaster, 1925�1957. He looks a dreadful old grump.�

�What sideburns!� Lockwood said, marvelling. �You could stuff a cushion with the hair on them. I wonder if��

�Hold it!� I said. �I hear something.�

Silence in the library. We listened. We stood dead still.

Out in the corridor, beyond the half-closed door, there came a soft, intermittent chinking sound. Not far off, and coming closer. And with it now: the sound of footsteps, limping footsteps � a firm step, then a drawn-out drag, as if a lame leg were being laboriously swung along the floor�

�Got it,� Lockwood whispered suddenly. �I hear it too. Get inside the chains.�

We stepped into the circle.

�Temperature�s dropping,� George muttered. �Seven degrees� Now six��

We took our rapiers from our belts.

Closer, closer came the horrid dragging footsteps. Closer came the clinking sound.

�Keys,� I breathed. �It sounds like keys.�

�Five degrees,� George said calmly. His breath was pluming in the air.

We stood and faced the door.

The footsteps stopped. Thin threads of ghost-fog came trickling round the side of the door. Cold blistered my skin.

Something struck the door on the outside, making the wood reverberate. It struck the wood again.

�Lockwood,� I hissed. �What do we do?�

�We sit tight,� Lockwood said. �It�s loud, it�s scary, but it�s not actually attacking us directly. If it comes into the room, that�s a different matter. Wait and see.�

Even as he spoke, a third colossal bang resounded on the door. Flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling and the floor shuddered. George and I flinched back inside the circle. We raised our rapiers, tensed our muscles, waited �

Waited�

Nothing came through.

Silence fell outside the door. A pressure lifted from the room. The little trails of ghost-fog dwindled and were gone.

We each exhaled long and loudly. I hadn�t realized I�d been holding my breath.

�Temp�s back to ten degrees,� George reported.

Lockwood nodded. �It�s over. For now.� He stepped out of the circle, strode to the door and flung it open. We emerged into the darkened corridor, shining our torches all around. Straight ahead, and to left and right, the passages stretched away. All was still.

�Nothing,� George said.

�Not quite,� Lockwood said soberly. �Look at this.� He angled his torch beam at the wall beside the door, shining it on the wooden plate, the one that said Ernest Potts Memorial Library. The sign didn�t look quite as smart as it had before: two great deep gashes had been scored diagonally across the wood, carving through the words. A knife might have done it. Or claws. Or long sharp fingernails. There were lots of possibilities, basically, and none of them too pleasant.

�Is it just me,� I said, �or is something not very happy about this nice new library?�

George was squinting at the sign through his thick round glasses. �Either that or it doesn�t like this Ernest Potts geezer. Look at the way his name�s sliced up.�

I nodded. �Maybe it took exception to his ridiculous facial hair. I know I did.�

�Whatever the reason,� Lockwood said, �I don�t feel that the library is quite at the centre of the haunting. Our readings weren�t strong enough inside. The Source must be somewhere else.�

Oh, did I mention Sources before? Here�s the thing about ghosts, you see. They don�t just float about wherever they like. All of them are tied to a specific thing or place � the spot where they died, or something important to them in life, or (most often) their bodily remains. We call this tethering point �the Source�, and that�s what agents look for. Find it and destroy it, or seal it up with silver � and that�s the end of the haunting. Then you can all go home for tea.

�We�d better check out that classroom now,� Lockwood was saying. �Take a look at this mysterious knife, which� Yes, George? What is it?�

George was jiggling about urgently. Either he was suddenly caught short or he�d had an idea. Or both. Sometimes the two did go together. Whichever, it was best not to ignore him.

�I might hang on in the library, if that�s all right,� he said. �I want to see if there�s a book about the school�s history, or some old school magazines or something. I�d like to discover a bit more about old headmaster Potts if I can. You never know, it might come in useful.�

This is George�s forte � he finds stuff out. Lockwood nodded. �Sure you�ll be OK on your own?�

�Of course. You don�t need to hold my hand. I can lug anything I find inside the chains and read them in there. I�ll be absolutely safe. See you in a bit.�

George went back into the library. Lockwood and I set off down the left-hand passage. We were once again in an old portion of the school, with walls of panelling and plaster. A number of doors opened on our left and we checked them briefly as we went. The first was a storeroom, filled with mops, vacuum cleaners and stacks of toilet roll. The temperature was chilly here: scarcely seven degrees. The next was little more than a walk-in cupboard, containing paper, pens and other stationery. It too was very cold. The third, the boys� toilets, was niffy, but much warmer � almost twelve degrees. The fourth �

The fourth door was open. We didn�t need to read its sign to know that this was the one we sought. Its window panel had been smashed; bright shards of glass glinted in our torchlight, and crunched beneath our boots as we entered the room.

Everywhere was evidence of the pupils� rapid departure the day before: books and pencil cases littering the table; bags and coats lying crumpled on the floor. At the front of the class, the teacher�s chair lay upended. And close by, jutting from the side of the desk that faced the door, we found the object that had so terrified Mr Whitaker.

It was a long, thin-bladed knife. The hilt was wound with leather strips, very old and frayed. Fragments of grey cobwebs hung from it too, swaying slightly in small movements of the air.

�That�s not an ordinary knife,� I said. �That�s a dagger.�

�You know what it looks like to me?� Lockwood said slowly. �An old military weapon. If I had to guess, I�d say First World War issue � the kind all soldiers carried.�

�Well, where�s it come from?�

�Answer that, and we find our ghost.� Lockwood straightened. �Listen, Lucy � I�m going to double-check further down the corridor. I�m pretty sure there�ll be nothing to find: I think the Source is between here and the library. I�ll be back in a minute, but while I�m gone, just start some readings in the classroom, would you?�

�Sure.�

He slipped out of the door and was gone into the dark. I scarcely noticed him go. I was too busy staring at the dagger in the desk. One of my Talents, you see, is that of Touch. Sometimes, if I hold an object that has some kind of psychic charge, I feel or hear things associated with its past. Not every time. It doesn�t always work. And if the psychic charge is too strong, it can be uncomfortable or even dangerous for me. But the insights are often useful.

I stared at the dagger and wondered if I should risk it�

Of course I should! I was an agent. Taking horrible risks was part of the job description. We might as well have put it on our business cards.

I reached down and placed my fingers on the hilt.

At first there was nothing � nothing but the cool roughness of the leather strips that had been wrapped tightly around the metal. Nothing but the icky-sticky wispiness of the cobwebs trailing against my skin. I closed my eyes, tried to empty out my mind.

And all at once sensations came.

I gasped. I took a sharp breath in. They weren�t nice sensations, and they filled me with a swirling tide of bitterness and fury. There was pain and dull resentment there, and envy too. But most of all there was greed � a hard, tight avarice that lusted after valuable things. Fleeting images came and went: I saw laughing children, school passages and classrooms (old-fashioned, but recognizably the same as the ones we now explored), and (dimly) soldiers struggling in a muddy field. But by far the strongest picture was that of an open box or chest filled with coins, and it brought with it a feeling of dark glee.

I nearly took my hand away then, but suddenly, rising from the past, I saw a face I recognized � a beefy face with enormous side-whiskers. It gazed at me fiercely and seemed to speak. And now I was awash with fear and hate, and I was fleeing through the corridors, trying to get away, trying to reach my secret place� A door slammed� I was alone and safe! Safe for the moment! And, best of all, I still had my precious�

�Lucy!�

My eyes snapped open. The voice broke through my trance. I snatched my hand away from the knife and, turning, peered off through the open classroom door and down along the passage. I did so almost blindly. It�s always hard when you�ve used your Talent. Your head�s all woozy, and your senses don�t quite work. Like waking from a dream, it takes you a few moments to come round. Plus it was very dark.

�Lucy��

Halfway back towards the library, I saw a figure standing, tall and thin. It beckoned to me quickly.

�Lockwood?� I felt in my belt for my torch. �Is that you?�

The shape beckoned once more; slipped out of sight towards one of the storerooms. By the time I�d stabbed my torch on, it was gone.

�Lockwood?� I called again.

No answer. But I�d heard the urgency in the voice, seen the eager beckoning. I hurried out of the classroom and along the corridor. It was very cold out there.

�Lucy��

No mistake this time. The voice came from behind the door to the store cupboard. I reached out to turn the handle�

A cough sounded right behind me.

I whirled round, shone my torch up. Lockwood stood there � calm, unflustered, one eyebrow elegantly raised.

�Luce. What are you doing? I thought I told you to stay in the classroom.�

I blinked at him foolishly. �Er� yes, you did. But didn�t you just call me?�

He looked at me.

�Didn�t you just beckon me to come?�

�I did neither. I�ve just been exploring further down the corridor like I said I was going to. As predicted, I found nothing. Because it�s here that the action is. As you�ve just proved. What did you see?�

I shuddered, looked towards the cupboard door. �I don�t know. But whatever it was, it wanted me to join it in there.�

Lockwood�s eyes narrowed. �Well, perhaps we can oblige it shortly. But only when we�re properly armed. Learn anything in the classroom?�

I took a deep breath. It�s always difficult to express what you get through psychic sensations. It�s hard to put it into words. But this time I didn�t even have a chance to try, because at that moment a loud, shrill and unmistakably George-like scream resounded down the corridor from the library. It echoed off the walls and faded.

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!�

Even as he said this, we noticed we could see our breath-plumes again. That�s never a good sign. Nor, to be honest, is the sound of dragging footsteps, or the rattling of keys, both of which I could suddenly hear again, not very far away.

�He�s back,� I whispered. �I can hear him coming.�

Lockwood was running his fingers along the edges of the panelling. �Didn�t take him long,� he said. �OK. George, give me a hand searching the wall. Lucy, do me a favour and just have a quick look in the corridor, would you?�

I peeped out. In the direction of the library, all was dark. In the direction of the classroom, a pale haze of other-light had gathered in the centre of the passage. At its heart I saw a tall thin figure, limping in our direction. The apparition was faint, but getting stronger, and I could already see the ragged clothes, the dragging leg, the loosely hanging arm� Also the cold metallic shimmer of a dagger, held outstretched in bony fingers.

I ducked back into the storeroom, where Lockwood and George were tapping at the panels. �Bad news,� I said hoarsely.

Lockwood didn�t look up. �How long have we got?�

�I�d say about thirty seconds.�

�OK.� Lockwood pressed a discoloured portion of panel speculatively. Nothing happened. �Lucy,� he said, �George and I are going to need a little longer than that. Two minutes � maximum three. Think you can delay our friend Harold that long?�

I turned back to the door. �I�ll see what I can do.�

Out in the corridor, the ragged, limping figure had drawn much closer; it had passed the toilets and was level with the other storeroom. Harsh cold radiated from its glow, and the malevolence of its purpose struck me like a solid thing. My head felt suddenly woozy, my limbs listless, heavy as concrete. The thud and drag of each maimed footfall beat like a drum against my ears. I could see the glittering of the knife.

All of which meant it was high time I did something. I flicked my coat aside, plucked a salt-bomb from my belt and threw it hard and fast, so that it burst on the floor just below the glowing form. The brittle plastic snapped; salt spattered out across the passage, flaring bright green as it hit the ectoplasm. The apparition flexed, distorting like an image seen in water, and blinked out � only to reappear instantly, some distance further away.

I ducked back into the storeroom. �How�s it going?�

Lockwood and George were crouched beside the wall, their attention focused on one particular panel that looked no different to the rest. �Found it,� Lockwood said. �Little clasp hidden at the base. Think it opens inwards, but it�s hellish stiff. Sixty seconds.�

�Right.�

I took a magnesium flare from my belt, hefted it in my hand and went back out into the passage. As I did so, something flashed past me, close enough to waft my fringe across my face. I looked � and saw the dagger, still vibrating, buried hilt-deep in the plaster of the wall. And now the pale, thin figure was rushing up the corridor, legs trailing, rags flapping, single arm reaching out to clasp me.

Well, it had annoyed me now. I lobbed the flare.

A blast of magnesium fire, peppered with filaments of burning salt and iron, is white enough and bright enough to momentarily blind the living, as well as do considerable damage to the dead. So I screwed up my eyes, and waited for the initial surge of heat to fade. And when I looked again, pockets of white flames were licking up across the passage floor, and the walls were pebble-dashed with smouldering pin-sized burns. The ghost itself had vanished.

I dived back into the storeroom, where Lockwood and George seemed to be in an almost identical position. �How�s it going now?�

�George has got blisters, and I�ve got my hand stuck.�

�I was thinking about the door.�

�It�s jammed. Either rusted, or something heavy on the other side.�

�Help give it a shove, can you?� George gasped. �Three of us might do the trick.�

I looked behind me. The silvery light was fading: already the fires were dying down. �I used a flare,� I said. �It�s flummoxed him, but he�ll be back any moment. He�s strong.�

�I know,� Lockwood said, �but we�ve got to get this open. Your weight might make the difference, Luce.�

�Exactly what are you saying?� But I ranged myself alongside them, and took the strain. I could see the hidden door now, a faint dark outline in the wood. Lockwood�s fingers were prising at one edge; George was heaving at its base. When I pushed, I felt the panel move.

�That�s it,� Lockwood breathed. �We�re almost there��

Air stirred. I looked to the side. A figure stood beside us in the dark. It had long white hair, and naked, grinning teeth.

I screamed, gave a final desperate shove. The wall moved: the panel swung open. Lockwood, George and I fell forward through the hole.

Whatever we landed on was both soft and brittle. Dry things snapped beneath us; I heard the sliding chink of coins. Momentum carried me furthest: I did a brisk head-over-heels and ended up in a sitting position, with my boots wedged against the opposite wall. I jumped to my feet, whipped out my torch and switched it on.

We were in a tiny windowless room, made smaller by the piled chests and boxes ranged along one wall. Some were closed; others, lidless, were full to overflowing with a strange medley of objects: candelabras, vases, even paintings. Everything was swathed in layers of dusty cobwebs. No surprises here. Spiders love Sources; they can�t get enough of them.

Speaking of the Source, it was right beneath us. We�d landed on it. Lockwood and George were hastily rolling clear. Directly in front of the secret panel, a body lay face down upon the floor. It was pretty cobwebby, but you could see the old-style jacket, the flannel trousers, the rotting leather shoes. Here and there were glimpses of yellowed bone. The head was hidden beneath a heavy wooden chest, the lid of which had broken open, and by a mass of greenish coins that had poured forth from it, half swallowing the skull. A certain amount of white hair still poked through, but the face was mercifully concealed.

None of us said anything. George was pulling his bag from his back, Lockwood tearing it open, looking for the silver. I kept my eyes trained on the secret door, on the dark corners of the room. I could feel the presence close at hand. But nothing stirred now. Maybe I�d sapped the thing�s strength out in the corridor; or maybe it had finally accepted what we were here to do. Who knew with ghosts? It was impossible to say.

Lockwood took a silver net from the bag, unfolded it to its full extent, and laid it over the body. At once I felt a lifting of the spirits, a change to the atmosphere in the secret room. I listened, tense and ready. No� it was OK. The presence was truly gone.

We stood there in silence.

�Look at all the stuff he pinched,� Lockwood said at last. �Quite the little collector, wasn�t he?�

�That shelf broke,� I said. �Look there � just above the door. He was hiding in here, maybe getting ready to nip off after dark. He had his chest of stolen money sitting on the shelf. Then it fell down and brained him. Cracked his skull or broke his neck. That�s how it happened.�

�Just deserts, I suppose,� Lockwood said. �He shouldn�t have nicked so much. Well, it�s over now.�

George stepped over the corpse and began rummaging in his bag. �Great. So, who fancies a celebratory bun? I�ve got some iced ones here.�

Lockwood hesitated. �Er, possibly in a minute. When we�re somewhere else.� He smiled. �Well done, everybody. Especially you, Luce. You did really well tonight. Made the right decisions at every turn.�

I grinned back, flushing a little, as I sometimes do when Lockwood trains his smile on me. �Oh, that�s OK,� I said. �It wasn�t just me, really. This job�s all about teamwork, isn�t it? I couldn�t have done it on my own.� I gazed down at the pile of coins, and at the boxes stacked against the walls. �Think this stuff�ll be worth anything now?�

�Expect so,� Lockwood said. �Mr Whitaker can probably afford more refurbishments to the school.�

George picked up his bag. �He might start with the boys� toilets. I can smell them from here. So, is that it, then? Are we done?�

Lockwood nodded. �Yes� Yes, I think we are.�

And with that we left the room behind us, and went to have a bun.