Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow by Jonathan Stroud

a black-and-white shot, photocopied and enlarged from the original. As George had said, it wasn’t good at all—the image was both blurry and grainy. You could see a police officer in the foreground, and another at the back, half out of view. And in between them was a vast, bulky shape, slope-shouldered and indistinct of feature. One great arm extended awkwardly; you could tell it was handcuffed to the officer in front. The other, presumably also cuffed, was out of sight behind. The head was bowed, also awkwardly; maybe it had just ducked out of the police van, but the impression was of a swollen, shambling thing, horribly out of proportion with the men on either side. Most of the face was in shadow. A few dark smears suggested a heavy brow, a wide-lipped mouth. For some reason, I was glad the picture showed no better detail.
    We all regarded it. “Yes…” Lockwood said at last. “That gives us an idea.”
    “He
was
a big lad, wasn’t he?” I said.
    “They had to build a special gallows,” George said. “One strong enough to take his weight. And here’s another thing. On the morning of the execution, a priest was present. He was officiating in case the condemned had a last confession. Well, when Guppy stood on the platform, just before the trapdoor opened, he beckoned the priest over and whispered something to him. Know what happened? Whatever he said was so terrifying, so horrible, the priest simply fainted clean away. And they say Guppy was smiling as the hangman pulled the lever.”
    No one at our table spoke. “Could do with a stupid joke now,” I said. “Got any more, George?”
    “Not at the moment. I’ll save them for when we’re creeping around Guppy’s house, trying to avoid his ghost.”
    Lockwood snorted. “There’s a fair number of urban legends getting mixed up with your facts today, George. No one’s
that
scary, not even a giant cannibal. We all need to relax.”
    And obviously he was right about this. We all sat back, giving each other broad, reassuring smiles. It was at that point that our tea and cakes arrived, delivered by a waitress with lavender garlands in her hair.
    “Right, George,” Lockwood said, when we were fortified. “We don’t have long before the taxi. Tell us about what happened at the house. What do you know?”
    “Found out a little bit about the victim,” George said. “Fellow called Mr. Dunn, lived a few doors up the street. Single fellow, amiable, socially conscious. He used to call on housebound neighbors—the elderly and infirm—do odd jobs for them, help with the shopping. Seems he noticed that Mr. Guppy at number seven seldom went out, and made it his business to stop in on him every once in a while. On the night in question, someone saw him heading over with the famous cake. After that, he wasn’t seen for days. When he was finally reported missing, the police went over. Guppy answered the door, told them that Dunn had indeed visited, but had left for another appointment. He didn’t know what his appointment was, or with whom. It was quite early, but Guppy was already up and making breakfast; the cops could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen.”
    “Oh, ick,” I said. Holly Munro wrinkled her nose.
    “Yeah,” George said. “Anyhow, the police went away, but they returned a few days later, following reports of smoke coming from Guppy’s house. His chimney was blocked; he’d been trying to burn something in the fireplace. That something turned out to be Dunn’s clothes. Most of the other things they found weren’t made public at the trial.”
    Holly brushed a length of hair behind her ear. “How utterly horrid. Do we know where the murder actually took place?”
    George pulled out a pale blue sheet of paper, unfolded it, and set it before us. It showed the layout of the house, which had two main floors, plus a basement. To the side was a garage. At the front and back were yards or gardens. The identity of each room was labeled neatly in red