Guillam paused in the act of taking a handkerchief out of his pocket—he was sweating, Christ; he felt clammy as if he'd had a fever—and turned to look at the woman. He pasted an unconvincing smile on his face.

"As rain," he said. He couldn't have sounded less casual if he'd tried. The smile wavered, fell. He shook his head. "Well, no, as a matter of fact. I prefer my ghosts when they're in M.R. James stories, you see." And when they're not the ghosts of people whose deaths I'm responsible for.