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opening, barely an alleyway, opened to his right. He turned into it and found his way blocked fifty feet on by a wooden gate higher than his head. It was another small courtyard, grimy windows looking down on him, a single doorway up two feet off the pavement with no steps to it, above it a gallows-like beam meant to hold a block and tackle. The place felt unused and dusty, as if he’d opened a door on it that had been locked for decades. Not even a pigeon.
    Chasing spooks.
    He decided to take his ghosts to some place that served alcohol.

CHAPTER FOUR
    He woke from troubling dreams to taste the once-familiar sourness of hangover. A voice was calling. The bed shook and he realized it was he who was shaking or being shaken. He opened his eyes.
    ‘Profuse apologies, General, but you like to be up by half-seven.’
    ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Pushing eight. I brought tea and a headache powder.’
    ‘I was out late.’
    ‘Hardly news.’
    Denton heard the tray clatter on the desktop. His breath was foul; his head ached, but not at that level that suggested real calamity. He sat up - the room didn’t swim.
    What had he done? In fact, he remembered it quite well. The Criterion, the Princess Louise, the Lamb. He reviewed the evening: no gaps, no horrors, a certain amount of sordid boozing.
    ‘There was one thing,’ he said aloud.
    ‘Only one?’ Atkins handed him the cup of tea.
    ‘Don’t be cute when I’m like this; my temper’s short. Yes, only one. When I got home, I could see a light in the house beyond the back garden. Where you saw the red moustache before.’
    ‘Certain fact?’
    ‘Not the drink nor the lateness, no. It was a quarter of one - I remember looking at my watch.’
    ‘House’s supposed to be empty. Somebody looking this place over for an entry, could be.’ Atkins had been given a bad knock on the head by somebody who had broken in the year before. ‘I think I’d like the derringer until this is settled, if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Mmm.’ He did mind, but he understood. ‘Time I bought myself another pistol, I think.’
    Later, Atkins presented a raw egg with Worcester and lemon, which he dutifully drank down despite feeling better by then. The headache remained - to have lost it entirely so early would have been to miss the point of the lesson - and a slight imbalance if he moved too fast, but he could work and think. And worry about Mrs Striker, who might well send him a note saying she never wanted to see him again.
    In the middle of the morning, he broke from his work to go up to the attic, where he pushed the hundred-pound weight off his chest fifty times and rowed on the contraption for fifteen minutes before shooting twenty shots with the Flobert pistols. When he was done, he unlocked the skylight and put his head out. He meant to look down at the rear of the house behind his own. Regrettably, the roof was in the way.
    He had a panic fear of heights that was not quite great enough to keep him from going out. Last year, somebody had got into his house this way; now, going out, he saw how reckless the man had been. The centre of the roof was flat, but around it were cascades of slate down to the eaves, interrupted only by four multi-flued chimneys. He all but crawled to the edge of the flat part, then held a chimney as a child holds its mother and looked down. To his relief, he could see what he wanted: the house behind had a cellar entrance that was reached by a door seemingly flat on the ground, actually angled down from the foundation wall. There was also a rear entrance at ground level, probably giving directly on the kitchen and pantry.
    Not a problem getting in for anybody with some tools. He meant himself as well as the man Atkins had seen; he was thinking of breaking into the house and looking for signs that somebody had in fact been there. A moment’s thought showed him what a bad idea he had had. If he found anything, he would then have to tell the police; they would have him for