‘Does Edmund Bickerstaff mean anything to you?’ The words echoed around us, bouncing off the ghost-goads and spirit-charms that lined the walls. We sat there. The echoes faded. ‘In all honesty, no,’ Lockwood said. Mr Saunders sat back on the sofa. ‘No – to be fair, I’d never heard of him either. But Joplin here, whose speciality it is to poke his nose down odd and unsavoury byways of the past, he’d heard the name. Hadn’t you, eh?’ He nudged the small man. ‘And it makes him nervous.’ Mr Joplin laughed weakly,
