‘But you’d rather Lesley lived?’ I asked.

‘Is this possible?’ she asked.

‘Only if you agree,’ I said.

Lesley leaned forward and took my hand. ‘Oh, but I do, my boy,’ she said. ‘We can’t have it be said that Henry Pyke was so ungracious as to inflict his own sad fate upon an innocent.’

I really did wonder when he said that if he had any inkling of the trail of death and misery he’d left behind. Perhaps that was a function of being a ghost; perhaps to the dead the world of the living was a dream, and not to be taken too seriously.

‘Then let me call my doctor,’ I said.

‘This would be the Scottish Mohamedan?’

‘Dr Walid,’ I said.

‘You believe he can save her?’ asked Lesley.

‘I believe he can,’ I said.

‘Then by all means summon him,’ said Lesley.

I went outside onto the staircase, replaced the battery in my spare mobile and called Dr Walid, who said he would arrive within ten minutes. He gave me some instructions to follow in the meantime. Lesley looked expectant when I returned.

‘Can I have Nightingale’s staff?’ I asked.

Lesley nodded and handed over the silver-topped cane. I placed my hand on the handle as Dr Walid had suggested but there was nothing, just the chill of metal – the staff had been completely drained of magic.

‘We don’t have much time,’ I said. There was a relatively clean dust sheet over the back of the chaise longue – I grabbed it.

‘Truly?’ asked Lesley. ‘Alas, for as the hour grows closer I feel myself reluctant to depart.’

I started ripping the sheet into broad strips. ‘Can I speak to Lesley directly?’ I asked.

‘Of course, dear boy,’ said Lesley.

‘Are you okay?’ There was no outward change that I could see.

‘Ha,’ she said, and I was sure from the tone that this was the real Lesley. ‘That’s a stupid question. It’s happened, hasn’t it, I can feel it …’

She raised her hand to her face, but I took it and gently guided it back down.

‘Everything’s going to be OK,’ I said.

‘You’re such a bad liar,’ she said. ‘No wonder I had to do all the talking.’

‘You had such a natural talent for it,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t talent,’ said Lesley. ‘It was hard work.’

‘You always had such a natural talent for hard work,’ I said.

‘Bastard,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember them telling me when I joined that there was a risk my face might fall off.’

‘Don’t you?’ I asked. ‘Remember Inspector Neblett, old shovel-face himself? Maybe that’s what happened to him.’

‘Tell me I’m going to be okay again.’

‘You’re going to be okay,’ I said. ‘I’m going to hold your face on with this.’ I showed her the strips of sheet.