Jonathan Stroud - The Dagger in the Desk

It was a winters morning, the day after the messy conclusion to theCase of the Floating Fingers, and Lockwood, George and I had assembledin the kitchen for a very late breakfast. Rapiers, chains and salt-bombslay scattered on the table. Georges jacket, peppered with ectoplasmburns, hung steaming on a chair. A severed hand, securely contained in asilver-glass case, sat by the cornflakes, ready for disposal later. Thissort of thing is normal in our house, and it didnt spoil our appetite.We were just helping ourselves to another round of tea and toast whenthere was a clanging on the bell outside.

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

I frowned. Why me?

Im still in my pyjamas and Georges face is covered in jam.

They were decent points; I couldnt argue with them. I answered thedoor. On the step stood a small, roundish man with a pink face and adishevelled mop of sandy hair. He wore a brown tweed suit and awild-eyed expression of deep horror.

I-Im sorry to disturb you, miss, he said, but I-I believe Ive seena ghost.

I smiled cheerily. Then thats our business, sir. Come in.

If anything, the mans unease grew once Id settled him on the sofa witha biscuit and a cup of tea. His fingers shook, his teeth chattered, hiseyes darted from side to side as if he expected something to leap fromthe wall and devour him. When Lockwood (now fully clothed) and George(partially de-jammed) came in, he jumped violently, sloshing tea downthe front of his shirt.

Lockwood shook his hand. Im 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 theheadmaster of St Simeons Academy for Talented Youngsters, a well-knownschool in Hammersmith. It is an old school, but much modernized over theyears. Only last month, indeed, we opened a new library, and it wasthen 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 nothingof it. But they also spoke of a spreading chill, a feeling ofinexplicable dread and of hearing a faint clinking sound.

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

I dont know. I am an adult. I heard nothing.

When do these phenomena occur?

Always late afternoon, as the light starts fading. Anyway, yesterdaythings got worse. I was teaching Class 2A. Just as the pupils werepacking up, complaining again of the cold and the troubling smell,something was thrown into the classroom. It smashed straight through theglass of the door, whizzed through the air, and plunged deep into theside of my desk. A knife, Mr Lockwood! A long thin knife with an antiquehandle! When I got over my shock, I ran outside, and looked up and downthe corridor. Just for a moment I fancied I saw out of the corner ofmy eye a shadow standing by the library door: a hunched and disfiguredshape. I turned my head and the presence was gone. Yet I had theimpression that something was watching me; something filled withterrible wickedness and spite Mr Whitaker shuddered. That wasenough for me! I have closed the school and come to you in the hope thatyou will help.

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

The headmaster blinked. It was deeply embedded in the desk and I couldnot pull it free. I left it when we evacuated the classroom. It willstill be there.

Lockwood clicked his tongue. I hope so Well, we will find outtonight. 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 onthe wall.

Is it close to the new library?

Not far. Just along the corridor.

Thank you, Mr Whitaker, Lockwood said. Thats fine. Well be at StSimeons an hour before dusk. You will leave the door open, I hope?

Certainly The little man hesitated. But I trust you wont wantme to

Lockwood grinned. Dont worry, well look around on our own. He stoodand held out his hand. Well, goodbye. Well report to you first thingtomorrow.

So what do we think? I said as we watched our client totter down thepath and hurry off up the road. A Poltergeist?

Lockwood shook his head. Poltergeists chuck things around, but theydont take bodily form, do they? And Whitaker saw a shadow.

George had taken off his glasses and was polishing them dubiously. Idont like it, he muttered. I dont like it at all. This is a ghoststrong enough to throw sharp objects about before its even dark! Weregoing to have to be careful.

Oh, you worry too much, George, Lockwood said. Itll all be fine. Hestretched his arms and yawned. Now, who wants another piece of toast?

The day grew late. We worked in our basement office, sorting through ourkit. Ghosts hate iron and silver, and they dont much like salt either,so most of our equipment involves combinations of these. I tested thelinks on our protective iron chains; George refilled our canisters ofsalt and iron filings; Lockwood handed us each an explosive magnesiumflare. We checked our work-belts, and did a final bit of sword practicein 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 inlittle gusts. The ghost-lamps were already on.

St Simeons Academy for Talented Youngsters turned out to be a ramblingset of unattractive buildings situated not far from the motorwayflyover. The main school house, stained dark from years of London smoke,was a mess of steep roofs, gothic turrets, and narrow windows thatglinted blackly as we approached. Newer, equally ugly wings in glass andconcrete stretched either side.

George considered it glumly. That place is simply packed withghosts, he said. I can just tell.

Nothing we cant handle, Lockwood said. Right, heres the door.

A single light burned in the front porch, and the door creaked open tothe touch. Lockwood stepped in first; I followed. George came alongbehind.

We looked around.

We were in a tiled foyer, with kids art on the walls, and areceptionists desk along one wall. The air had that familiar tang offloor polish, socks and stale dinners that most schools share. Ahead ofus a long panelled corridor stretched away, punctuated by heavy doors.The shadows were lengthening now; the light was almost gone. The end ofthe corridor could not be seen.

We stood there, using our individual Talents. Lockwood and George lookedfor ghostly traces. I listened for spectral sounds.

All very quiet. Nothing could be heard. Or almost nothing, becausejust for a moment I thought I caught a faint metallic rattling

Gone. It wasnt anywhere close. Not yet.

All right, Lockwood said. Lets push on. Well go straight to Class2A.

George held up his hand. Wait a sec, Lockwood. First rule ofinvestigation: always establish a safe base before going deep into ahaunted building. We should rig up a strong iron circle here, so we canretreat inside it if anything goes wrong.

Lockwood frowned. No point putting iron down here. Were miles from theghost. Its a waste of a chain.

George glared at him from behind his little spectacles. Dozens ofagents get killed every year because they dont bother with the correctprecautions! It wont take a minute, and its better to be safe thansorry.

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