“If we string police tape across our end of the platform people will come over to see if there’s a body,” I said. “If we string some yellow and black hazard tape instead, nobody will pay any attention except to grumble.” I held up the high-visibility vest. “This sells the deal and renders me invisible.”
“You’ve been taking lessons from Guleed again,” said Nightingale. “Haven’t you?”
“Vestis virum reddit,” I said—clothes make the man.
Nightingale looked blank.
“Quintilianus,” I said.
“Of course,” said Nightingale. “Which reminds me, it’s about time we started you on your Greek.” My face must have betrayed my enthusiasm because he quickly added, “I think you’re going to find Marcus Aurelius particularly useful.”
“For what?” I asked.
Nightingale hesitated.
“Quoting, mainly,” he said. “And thus maintaining an air of erudition and authority.”
“Given the fact that we’re already working our arses off,” I said, “do you really think that’s an operational priority?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Nightingale. “How else will we keep Abigail’s respect?”
It was such a good plan, not exactly foolproof but you know, a solid, workmanlike, get-the-job-done sort of plan. It would have been nice if it hadn’t started to go wrong less then twenty minutes from when we started. The first southbound train was the very first train of the day and came in at about half five. By that time we were ready with our hazard tape and a stone that me and Nightingale had spent the previous evening imbuing with magic. We’d tried to keep the resultant vestigia as bland as possible but for some reason it smelt of coffee, stale beer and dusty curtains.
We’d dubbed it the Hangover Stone.
Nightingale said the freshness of the vestigia should be enough to attract any ghosts, but just to be on the safe side we planned to top it up with a low-grade werelight as each southbound train approached.
At Jaget’s suggestion we’d strung a second line of tape a couple of metres further up the platform so that people wouldn’t be looking over our shoulder. Jaget in his own, BTP-issue, high-visibility vest loitered so we could concentrate on the task at hand. I handed him the antiquated Leica camera and made him designated camera man in case we actually caught a ghost. The Leica was old enough to have a manual winding mechanism but Jaget assured me he could handle it.
“You should see some of the gear that’s still in operation on the Tube,” he said. “This is practically high tech.”
The first southbound train was due in shortly and already the platform was about a third full of people drinking coffee out of cardboard cups and really wishing they weren’t on their way to work. One or two close to us glared blearily in our direction, but it really was far too early in the morning for curiosity.
Jaget took a couple of pictures of the sleeping Toby to check the camera. Nightingale checked the destination board.
“Two minutes,” he said.
I blew on my fingers to warm them up and flexed them a bit before casting a werelight so low down the visible spectrum it was practically invisible and, more importantly, very localised. Then I turned to the Hangover Stone which was, in fact, a half brick nicked from some builder’s rubble in the Folly’s basement. When I touched it with the werelight it quickly glowed a cherry red. I motioned Jaget over to take some pictures.
“I want to know whether that’s real or not,” I said.
I cautiously poked it with my finger and there was no heat. So probably not.
“Don’t play with it, Peter,” said Nightingale. “The train is almost here.”
I joined Nightingale to stand between the stone and the commuters further up the platform.
The train was moving slowly by the time it reached our little party and the driver had plenty of time to stare curiously at us before remembering to bring his vehicle to a smooth stop. The doors opened and the early morning zombies shambled in.
I glanced at Toby, who yawned again and gave me a hopeful look.
The doors closed and the train whined off in the direction of work and despair.
Toby, realising that nothing in the sausage department was going to be forthcoming, curled up and went back to sleep.
“That was a bit of an anti-climax,” I said.
“I wouldn’t worry,” said a voice behind me. “There’s plenty more trains where that came from.”
I looked around, expecting a member of the public. But instead a ghost stepped into existence like someone walking into the light of a campfire. He was a tall, thin white man in a navy pinstripe suit and a bowler hat. He carried a full-length furled umbrella and a rolled-up newspaper under his arm. He was faded and see-through in the daylight—an impression? An interpretation of the mind’s eye? Or were real photons bouncing off something—however intangible? I heard a click and a whirr as Jaget took some shots with the antique Leica. He was using a very fast film so perhaps we’d settle that question.
Although, going by our past record, I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
The ghost waved his umbrella at Nightingale.
“You, sir,” he said. “Are you responsible for this delightful scene?”
“Can I help you?” said Nightingale.
“You could oblige me by continuing much as you are,” he said and stretched out his hands as if warming them against a fire. The palms and fingers, I saw, became increasingly solid as they approached the Hangover Stone. I made a mental note to check the photographs to see whether that was a true physical phenomenon or not. “Things have been growing rather thin of late.”
“Glad to be of service,” said Nightingale and formally introduced the three of us to the ghost.
“Name of Mr Ponderstep,” said the ghost.
Because we were police we couldn’t just leave it at a name—although no first name, I noticed—we always have to get an address, occupation, National Insurance number 3, previous convictions, inside leg measurement, favourite Pokémon…Mr Ponderstep didn’t mind, he said, as long as we kept the magic flowing. He lived, or rather had lived, in West Drayton back when Harrow was hardly part of London at all. He’d caught the 7:15 into town each weekday morning, where he’d worked as a merchant banker.
When I tracked his records down much later, I discovered he’d fought at the Somme as an infantry lieutenant and had been awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry in the face of the enemy. He mentioned none of this during our conversation but Nightingale warned me against attributing this to ghostly incompleteness.
“People didn’t talk about the Great War back then,” he said—not even when they were dead.
He did talk about his wife, his daughter and Splinter, his golden retriever. In fact it was quite hard to shut him up, even when the next southbound train pulled in—noticeably short on ghostly riders.
Not so the Hangover Stone, because we turned back from the departing train to find a transparent figure in riding boots, a rain cape and a tricorn hat had joined Mr Ponderstep.
“So, who are you?” I asked.
“I am but a humble road agent,” said the ghost. “Cut unkindly short through the actions of jealous and unchristian men.” He slapped a hand theatrically to his chest. “Shot through the heart not more than half a mile from this very spot.”