“Well, you were staggering, rather, and Matthew was holding you like a sack of oats,” pointed out Anna. “So where is Filomena’s ghost, Lucie?”

“Limehouse. An old factory,” said Lucie. “I wrote down the address.”

“I’m all for conversing with the dead and gathering clues,” Thomas said, “but what if this is a trap?”

“It’s true that when mysterious spectral figures appear in novels telling the hero to visit a certain place, it’s always a trap,” Lucie admitted. A little of the color was coming back into her cheeks. “But it could also be true. We can’t afford not to go—Filomena might be able to point us directly at the murderer.”

“Still a trap,” said Matthew.

“A trap is a surprise attack,” said James. “We won’t be surprised, will we?” He winked at Lucie.

“Exactly,” she said. “This ghost—and he didn’t seem a bad sort, he was rather stylish, even—approached me alone. He has no reason to think that if I went to the place, I’d bring all my friends along.”

“We should go,” James said, his thoughts coming fast, almost too fast to track. “If we assume this ghostly advice is a trap, and ignore it, then we have no clues. If we assume it means something, and follow it up, we might discover something useful. Do you see what I mean?”

“You mean that we have a choice,” said Anna. “Go to the Limehouse docks, and perhaps learn something, or do nothing, and certainly learn nothing.”

“If there’s really a chance we could speak to Filomena’s ghost, we have to try.” Cordelia spoke firmly.

“And if it’s an ambush, there will be more than enough of us to handle it,” Anna said. “We can’t just roll up to the docks in the Consul’s carriage, though. We’ll have to glamour ourselves and keep a low profile.”

“Delightful!” said Matthew. “We’ll take the train. I love the train. The little tickets are so amusing.”

As they made their way into the chilly, bustling interior of Fenchurch Street Station, Cordelia could not help but wonder quite what it was about the place that enchanted Matthew so. She’d taken plenty of trains in her life, with her family, so perhaps they’d lost their charm. This station seemed like many others: flower sellers, newsstands, telegraph offices, passengers rushing to and fro in the fog of steam from the engines, the smell of burning coal strong on the air. Dim light seeped through grimy panes in the arched ceiling high above, illuminating a large sign reading CHARRINGTON ALES. Below it hung the big station clock.