“I see.” Harper swallowed—which was getting to be hard work. She reached under her spectacles, rubbed her eyes. “So—as I understand it—this manuscript from Belham Abbey no longer exists. There is now no copy of either the original or of James’s translation.”

“Well, except for this one, of course,” said Rose Ponsonby. And she leaned forward—three cats falling from her to plop onto the carpet. She tugged a manila envelope out from under a stack of books by her feet. Lifted it. And presented it to Harper across the tea table.

Harper seized it with a trembling hand. “This is a copy of James’s translation?”

“Well, no, not exactly,” said Rose. “Monty was kind enough to dictate this to me some time ago when I expressed an interest in it during one of our conversations. But you can be sure I wrote it all down quite faithfully.”

Harper closed one eye, examined her friend. “The ghost of M. R. James dictated this to you.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Rose Ponsonby. “His memory is quite, quite prodigious, you know. And anyway,” she added with a naughty little hoist of her shoulders, “I checked it against the original, many years ago at Kings, before the manuscript was stolen. And what do you think? It was exactly right. Why, it was absolutely word for word.”

Had Harper been less excited, she would probably have been more alert to the danger she already knew was pressing in around her. But as tense as she’d been, as wary, every other thought was now pushed aside by the realization of what she had in her possession: the source; the last ghost story. Secreted in a hidden pouch within her cape was the translation of the document she believed had inspired ‘Black Annie,” The Alchemist’s Castle,’ the ballad of ‘Young William,’ and the Rhinehart triptych itself. This, she believed, was what Iago had discovered twenty years ago, what had started him on the triptych’s trail. And now, all at once, it had simply been placed into her hands. She could think of nothing else but getting home to read it.

Hunched against the night chill, she trundled down the short path in front of Rose Ponsonby’s dainty little house. A cortege of cats danced attendance on her as far as the picket gate. Rose waved from the doorway. Then the cats disbanded and Rose Ponsonby withdrew. The door closed and Harper was alone on the Portobello Road.

Her head bent in contemplation, her hat pulled low across her brows, her stick rapping the pavement, she walked beside the empty, narrow street. A grim brick housing estate hulked in the shadows to one side of her, a row of modest houses stood on the other. A streetlamp passed over her head. She passed through its glow—and then out of it into darkness.

And a cab pulled up slowly behind her.