"So you believe I can really talk to spirits?" I said to Mr. Culvert.

"Yes of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Many people do not."

"Many people don't know what I know about the supernatural." He indicated I should sit on the blood-red velvet sofa.

The footman re-entered carrying a tea tray stacked with tea things and a plate of butter biscuits, freshly baked going by their delicious smell. It was early for refreshments, early for making calls for that matter, but Mr. Culvert didn't seem to mind. Indeed, he seemed quite eager to chat. He sat in the chair opposite and leaned forward as the footman poured the tea.

I took my teacup and wondered where Mrs. Culvert was in the vast house. When the footman left I hazarded a glance at Jacob. He stood beside the mantelpiece, its height perfect for resting his elbow, and watched the proceedings with a closed expression. I thought he'd be impatient for me to ask questions but he said nothing, simply waited.

I decided to follow our original plan. "I heard about you through a mutual friend of ours," I said to Mr. Culvert. "Jacob Beaufort. I believe you went to Eton with him."

George Culvert's brows shot up into his snowy blond curls. "You knew him?"

I nodded and sipped my tea in an effort to disguise my lie. I had one of those faces that was easy to read so the better I hid it, the better I could lie. "His sudden death must have shocked everyone at the school."

"It must have, but I wouldn’t know." He too took a sip of his tea but watched me the entire time over the rim of his cup. "He died after we'd both left Eton. Jacob had gone on to Oxford I believe."

My ghost had failed to mention that fact. Jacob shifted his weight. "It was so long ago," I said lightly. "I find it hard to recall the dates."

Mr. Culvert lowered his cup and locked his gaze with mine. "And he wasn't my friend."

Oh dear. This was going to be more difficult than I imagined. "He, uh, mentioned you though. Frequently."

Jacob groaned. "Tell him we were in the same debating team once."

"You were on the debating team together," I said.

"No, that was my cousin, another Culvert," Mr. Culvert said.

"Oh."

Jacob shrugged. "I thought it was him." He frowned, shook his head. "I just can't seem to recall him. The uncle I spoke to in the Waiting Area was adamant his nephew George went to Eton in my year level. Why can't I remember him?"

"It must have been some other team then," I offered. "Cricket?"

"I didn't play sports unless I had to," Mr. Culvert said. "And Jacob and I were never on the same team. He was always in the firsts—cricket, rugby et cetera. I was...not. So you see, I'd be very surprised if he noticed me at all."