“Six to eight pages on the major themes of The Diary of Samuel Pepys,” I said automatically.

“The Diary of Samuel Pepys is massive,” Alistair replied.

“Oh . . . I mean, just the part about the fire.”

“The major theme of the part about the fire is the fire.”

“Also . . . rhetorical technique, or something.”

“Could you help us with that?” Boo asked. She had an alarmingly huge smile. “I mean, you’re obviously clever, and we have a murderer to stop. Can you type, or—”

“I don’t type.”

“Or write,” she said quickly. “Can you hold a pen?”

“I haven’t practiced in a while,” he replied. “I used to be able to do it. When do you need it?”

“Tomorrow morning?” I replied.

Alistair tapped his mouth with his fisted hand and thought for a moment.

“I want music,” he said.

“Music!” Boo nodded. “We can get you music! What music do you want?”

“I want Strangeways, Here We Come by the Smiths and Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me by the Cure—”

“Wait, wait . . .”

Boo hurried off. I heard her making her way down the steps. While she was gone, I just stared at Alistair and he stared back at me.

“Pen,” she said as she returned. She held up a pen as proof. “Say those again.”

Alistair repeated his album choices, and Boo wrote them down on her palm.

“And London Calling,” he added, leaning over to make sure she was getting the names right. “I want London Calling by the Clash.”

“I’ll get you these albums tonight,” she said, holding out her hand so he could see what she had written. “And something to play them on. Deal?”

“I suppose,” he said. “Wait . . . I also want The Queen Is Dead. Also by the Smiths.”

“Four albums,” she said, holding up her palm to show him. “One paper. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said.

“See that?” Boo asked when we were outside. “Not scary, is he? And your paper is sorted.”

There was something in what she was saying. Alistair hadn’t scared me. There was really nothing weird about the conversation at all, if you discounted the fact that we had discussed an article about his death.

“Are there any other ghosts around here?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve seen, but sometimes they’re shy. A lot of them love attics, basements, underground areas. People scare them. Funny, isn’t it? People are scared of ghosts, ghosts are scared of people, when there’s no reason for any of it.”

“Except that the Ripper is a ghost,” I said. “There is no humanly possible way for me not to worry about that. And Jerome thinks I’m insane.”

“Oh.” Boo waved her hand dismissively. “He’ll forget.”

“I don’t think he will.”

“Course he will. And it’s only Jerome.”

My silence intrigued her.

“You?” she said. “And Jerome?”

I remained silent.

“Seriously? You and Jerome?”

“It’s not . . . It’s not a—”