Lockwood & Co Read Free

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