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when I glimpsed bookshelves through an open door and went in to find a room shrouded in twilight; a single candle burned on a large central table.
A few books were scattered on the table; I turned one over idly and found it to be music in a strange old notation. Written by a man called Dowland, evidently. How quickly composers are forgotten,
I thought – maybe one day my own music would suffer the same fate.
    Pen, paper and sealing wax were on a small shelf in one corner and I took them to the table, where I could have the benefit of the candlelight. I’d hardly sat down when a voice said:
“Good day, my son.”
    A faint brightness slid across the tarnished wood of the table-top; its feebleness suggested the spirit must be very old, eighty or more, which meant the living man must have died around 1666.
He must have lived through Cromwell’s Commonwealth and King Charles’s days.
    “I am Monsignor Collins,” the spirit said with great dignity, lingering at the foot of the candlestick. “Pray do continue. Do not let me disturb you.”
    “Monsignor?” I echoed, startled.
    “You’re not prejudiced against the church, I hope, my son.”
    “No, no, not at all.” I hesitated. “You mean, the Church of Rome.”
    “Oh, indeed.” The spirit was positively cheerful about it. “I’m the black sheep of the family. Everyone else has followed the Protestant faith since Good King Henry
brought it to England.” He sounded rueful. “I’ve always been one for being different. But don’t let me stop you writing your letter.”
    “It’s a private matter.”
    “And you’re afraid I’ll read it and pass the details on? Never fear, sir – I never learnt to read!”
    A churchman who couldn’t read? I began to think the spirit had been less a churchman and more a rogue.
    “It’s very cheering to have so many people in the house,” the spirit murmured as I hunted for a knife to sharpen the quill. “The old master liked his solitude. And his
money.”
    I plainly wasn’t going to be rid of him and I’ve found, through painful experiment, that it’s wise to be friendly with spirits. “A miser, was he?”
    “Careful. Didn’t like spendthrifts. Turned his nephew down more than once when he came applying for a loan.”
    “He’s got everything now,” I pointed out.
    “Everything comes to he who waits,” said the spirit sententiously.
    The door opened; the spirit was gone in an instant. Edward Alyson hesitated on the threshold. His bright blue coat was rumpled, his face red, and he walked unsteadily. But he talked sensibly
enough.
    “This business with the girl,” he said, with good humour. He supported himself on the edge of the table as he eased into the chair opposite me. “Surely it’s not worth
pursuing? The girl was a whore.”
    It was unlikely he – or any man of his class – could be brought to regard Nell as a human being, rather than a mere convenience for gentlemen’s worst urges, so I merely said:
“As your guest suggested, a man who kills once may kill again and next time he may choose someone of – ” I chose my words carefully “ – more standing in the
community.”
    Alyson lounged back in his chair, grinning. “I’ll not persuade you, I see. You’re a man who finishes what he starts.”
    “Always,” I agreed.
    He jumped up, wandered round the room, trailing his fingers across the spines of books. “I’m told you’ve dealt with three or four matters of this kind.”
    “Three.”
    “It must be devilishly exciting!”
    I contemplated the past. “A little frightening at times. But satisfying to bring someone to justice.”
    His hand settled on a book’s spine, hesitated. He hooked his finger over the top; I winced as I heard the binding tear.
    “I thought it must be here somewhere,” he said in delight, and brought the volume across to show me. It was a large Bible, of the sort most commonly seen on lecterns in churches, and
when he lifted the heavy front cover, I saw