Prologue
Kathleen Doyle sat in the comfortable armchair, feeding baby Tommy, and thinking about nothing in particular—as one tended to do, in the dark and quiet house. The baby was down to one feeding a night, which was a blessing, even though she didn’t mind—not truly; there was something to be said for such an elemental experience, that no one else could share, save the two of you.
She hadn’t realized that she’d fallen asleep, until she saw—with some surprise—that she’d a ghostly visitor, here in the nursery. Doyle was what the Irish would call a ‘chime-child’—fey; and born with an extra-perceptive sense. As part and parcel of this extra sense, she would see ghosts, on occasion—rather persistent ghosts, who tended to give her advice.
This ghost was a man of perhaps forty years—a familiar figure, who regarded her with a benign expression, as he seemed to hover, suspended above the floor.
“Oh,” said Doyle. “I’m that sorry you’re dead.”
“No matter,” Nigel Howard replied, and smiled.
“Acton’s furious,” she disclosed.
“Wrath,” the ghost agreed. “There’s a reason, that it is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“Don’t I know it.” Doyle was a detective with Scotland Yard, and tended to see the wages of wrath on a daily basis—or at least she usually did, being as at present, she was on maternity leave.
As her visitor seemed disinclined to explain why he was haunting her, she offered, “People are goin’ to prison for it—for your murder, you know. It just takes time, to get it all lined up right.”
Howard was a former MP, who’d uncovered a massive embezzlement operation within the government bureaucracy. The panicking bureaucrats—once aware that he was on to them—promptly arranged for his murder, using a tainted shipment of over-the-counter drugs, so as to disguise their true intent.
“Vengeance,” he said, and fixed her with his thoughtful gaze. “Which is just a variation on wrath, when all is said and done.”
“Well, it’s deservin’ of a bit o’ vengeance, you are, my friend.”
“Exactly,” he agreed.
Puzzled, she stared at him. “Exactly, what?”
“Avenge my death.” He paused, and then added politely. “If you don’t mind.”
Doyle blinked. “The CID is rollin’ up the blacklegs, I promise you.”
He tilted his head, in mild disagreement.
Again, she blinked. “There’s people goin’ unpunished?”
“There are. I wouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t important.”
But—thoroughly confused—Doyle ventured, “I can’t just go about, takin’ my own vengeance on things. Acton’s the vengeful one, not me.”
“Exactly,” he said, and seemed well-pleased by this insight.
Quickly, Doyle cautioned, “But please don’t go hauntin’ him—he’s on a hair-trigger, as it is.”
“Avenge my death,” the ghost repeated. “If you would.”
And then Doyle was startled awake, staring at the empty room, with her heart hammering in her ears.