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possibilities of time beyond our current plane and exis…”
    Professor Folds voice cut through the air.
    “It is nonsense…”
    Lachlan was disappointed. He had talked over various aspects of his research at several meals and teatimes at the Folds home to what had appeared to be a receptive audience.
    “You know that is not so Professor Folds. You understand something of what I hope to achieve here. What I hope to bring to light.”
    Professor Folds was shaking his head at every word. Lachlan fell silent.
    “Possibly, there are reasons that such things have been locked away in the darkness, Laidlaw.” he looked more serious than Lachlan had ever seen him.
    “Possibly.”
    They were reaching their stalemate.
    “You will not concede?” Professor Folds asked in the tone of a man who knew the answer.
    “Not ‘will not’ Professor… I cannot.”
    Dr Lachlan Laidlaw’s standing invitation to Thursday tea at the Folds residence was duly rescinded as Lachlan loaded his boxes into a wheelbarrow he’d borrowed for the purpose and moved in above Todber and Murnhall.
    It was Todber who first noticed the black dog.
    “Whose is the dog?” he asked, clearing the supper things into the kitchen one evening. Lachlan had been working on a haunting at a local pub, writing a report on the changes in temperature he had recorded on a recent field trip and researching the history of the building which was long and complicated. He was hoping to find where lines of time might cross.
    “Mm?” Lachlan was only half listening, thinking of the lure of a whisky glass and wondering if tonight he would fall asleep in the chair again. Todber emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth “The big black dog in the yard. Did you let it in?”
    Lachlan looked out of the window and down into the twilight below. As he did so a vast black dog lifted itself from the shadows and nosed its way out through the gate.
    “Murnhall’s left the gate open again…that’ll be it. Murny?” Todber turned out of the kitchen, his voice echoing down the hallway as he headed downstairs. There was chatter and a few moments later Todber and Murnhall entered the yard, clattered about by the bins and could be seen arguing over the security of the gate.
    The next morning, as Lachlan waited for the kettle to boil he glanced down into the yard. Once again the big black dog lifted itself from the shadow of the wall and, nudging gently at the gate, padded off. From his vantage point Lachlan could follow its progress down the back lane. He was wondering which other gate it might turn in at but it did not turn in, at the end of the lane it halted, looked back for a moment at Lachlan before turning into the street. The kettle whistled, insistent.
    The next morning Lachlan was heading back to the haunted pub. He had suspected that the only reason the young landlady had called him in was because she rather fancied him. He had no proof other than an instinct but his field studies had yielded nothing useful. He had another new commission in place and he could not afford to waste his time. He was interested in the idea of the history of the place perhaps knitting incidents and memory into the fabric of the building, but he was not interested in the landlady and so, his studies there would have to cease. He was going to go over there and tell her so. There would be no more ghosthunting, at least not in that particular place. It disappointed him.
    It disappointed her. Where Lachlan thought he was being polite and careful in his dealing with this matter, the landlady, Milly, was insulted and embarrassed.
    “You calling me a liar?” she bellowed “How dare you?” the tirade went on, the landlady’s face growing redder and redder. If there had been no ghosts in the pub before then Lachlan felt sure she had certainly raised some with the sheer force of her outrage.
    He returned his books to the library and after a desultory hour or two with his head in other