The weather on Sunday was foul: cold, with proper November drizzle. I was glad I'd set the alarm for 7 o'clock. It gave me plenty of time to get ready and still leave at about eight – I didn't fancy having to rush the drive out to Market Helsham, and I didn't really know where I was going when I got there. In fact, the drive was pretty straightforward and under normal conditions wouldn't have needed so much time, but I took it easy; the car park I'd been recommended was easy enough to find as well, so I had time to collect my thoughts after arriving. The chilly, wet conditions as I dashed to get a day ticket from the paystation were a shock, after the warmth of the car, and I was glad of my thick tights and black boots under my sober knee-length black dress, and the black roll-neck jumper I'd put on over it. Ducking back into the car in the spare ten minutes I had, I found a handful of hairpins in the glove compartment and twisted my hair up into a tight bun (not unlike Miss Williams's favoured style, I thought with an ironic smile) to stop it going messy in the rain.

Without dawdling in the wet, despite my scarf and only smart black winter coat on top of everything else, I strolled through the town centre to find the war memorial. On the other side of the town square, an elderly chap was unlocking the church, so I introduced myself and said I was due to meet the town council lady, and he invited me to wait in the porch. I'd just started checking my camera equipment when Margaret, my contact, appeared; we went and sat in a pew at the back of the church for a chat.

I kept the interview informal and got her permission to use the information she'd already given me, then we discussed who else might be prepared to talk to me. Apparently, Lt. Stephenson had had no direct descendants (he wasn't married, and had died in his mid-twenties) but a great-nephew who lived away was supposedly going to be attending: Margaret said she'd introduce me. She asked for no photos during the church service or the wreath-laying at the memorial, but promised to make sure we got a photo opp after the ceremony itself. There would also be a short reception in the town's Assembly Rooms at which I'd be welcome to interview and photograph whomever I liked.

At the back of my mind was the knowledge that somewhere in this attractive and rather quiet little market town was a restless ghost, and that I was due to meet it; that there was a tiny blot on the character of Edward Stephenson – even if it was only for getting caught up in a pub brawl shortly before he went out to his death – and that somehow, now, something was going to be set in train to resolve whatever was left unresolved at his death a century ago. In the course of what I hoped felt like general chit-chat, I mentioned the name of the pub in which the fight had taken place. "I was reading something about it the other day and thought, what a coincidence, I'm going there..."

"Ooh, not sure," said Margaret. "We're incomers, my husband and I, but we've been here over ten years and it's not one I recognise. Gerry might know." She called over the churchwarden who'd let me shelter out of the rain. "Pub called the Wharf, Gerry? Any ideas? Georgia here was just asking about it."

"Oh, it's not important," I lied hurriedly. "Just happened across it in an old copy of the magazine the other day, while I was looking up the town's history."

"Heck," said Gerry. "Well, that takes me back. Scene of my misspent youth, was the Wharf." Gerry winked at me, conspiratorially. "Been knocked down now, about twenty year since, though it was shut up and derelict for a good twenty afore that. Made room for one of them blocks of flats when they decided to regenerate the waterfront." He leant himself on the end of the pew and gazed into his past. "It were always a bit of a rough'n'ready place, like. To be honest it were a proper hole, but they were always happy to take yer coin and din't ask too many questions about yer age." I heard Margaret pretend to be shocked beside me, but Gerry carried on. "Way back at the beginning of the last century, afore my time even," (another wink), "it were popular with the boatmen. Handy for 'em, see, with it being right on the canal basin. That were when the town were busy with canal trade, but all that disappeared slowly after the second war, and the pub prob'ly went downhill after. Though I'd not be surprised if it was always a bit rough around the edges, seeing as who was the main punters, like. Them boatmen stuck together like glue, and nivver took much nonsense off nobbody else."

I felt the back of my neck prickle slightly, which told me that somehow what I was hearing was relevant. "How long have you lived here, Gerry?" I asked politely.

"All me seventy-six years. Helsham born and bred."

"And did you know the Stephenson family?"

Gerry chuckled. "Ever'body knew the Stephenson family, lass. Least, if you had aught to do wi' the land. Biggest farming family for several parishes round. The old man, yon Edward's father, struggled on till the 1920s, I think, but he'd had the stuffing knocked out on him by losing his eldest in the War, like; his next eldest 'un, Old Man Stephenson, as I knew him as a young farming lad meself...that's Edward's brother...he took it on and kept going till he passed on in the late '60s. He nivver found time for a wife, and the older sister kept for him; the youngest girl went off and got married soon as she could. Farm was broken up after the old man – the brother, like – died."

Margaret touched my arm. "It's the youngest sister's grandson you'll meet later – Edward's great-nephew. The only descendants we could trace. Seems Edward and his siblings were almost a lost generation."

"It must've been a very disruptive time." I thought the youngest was in some respects probably lucky to escape, as the family didn't sound like it had been particularly happy – at least not after the War. "How many boys did the town lose?"

Margaret gestured towards the door, vaguely in the direction of the war memorial beyond, at the other side of the square. "There's slightly over a hundred and fifty names on the memorial from the First World War, and another seventy or so from the Second. In 1911 the population of the town was about 2,500. I think someone calculated once that about a quarter of the adult male population was lost between 1914 and 1918."

"And there was them as came back in body, but not the same," added Gerry. "Bits of themselves missing. Up here as much as aught, like." He tapped his head.

"I can only imagine how traumatic it all was." Part of me, the journalist part, was itching to get my notebook out and jot down some notes, but the rest of me was happy to sit respectfully in the pew and listen. Luckily, the journalist part was asking the questions. "You must have known some of these boys as old men, Gerry, when you were younger?"

He nodded. "They wasn't a generation that liked to talk about it. Kept it all in, like, not like nowadays." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Not sure what's healthier; lot to be said for getting things off yer chest, sometimes. I used to work with one fella for a year or two, old Bert Dedding. He'd been one of the headmen for the Stephensons afore the War. 'Bout the same age as this Edward and big boyhood pals with him, right up until the War split them up. Used to go out drinking together and...well...looking for love, shall we say? Well, old Bert made it through the trenches, come back home, but his eyes were shot with him having been gassed. Not completely, but enough to cause him problems, like, and it'd obviously left its mark on his mind 'n all. Anyways, the poor sod couldn't nivver hold down his job like he used to, fair enough. When I knew him in the early '60s, he were kept on in a little tied cottage on the main farm, and he were used to do all manner o' little jobs here an' about, but it was mainly out of charity, I reckon. With him havin' been such a pal of Edward's and a good worker afore the War broke him." Gerry looked slightly distant for a moment. "He were still a demon worker, when his mind were on the job and he could see what were afore him. Well into his seventies, he was. But he kept drifting off, like, even all them years after. Told me about it once, in a rare moment: said he'd seen the horrors of Hell itself." Gerry looked quite moved for a moment, but coughed quickly. "He passed on in '65, I think it were. Poor old lad."

My neck prickled again, and I rubbed it carefully, sensing that somewhere in all this reminiscing I had the faint beginnings of a story, but that it was also going to be painfully intrusive to push things further. Fortunately, the church clock chimed quarter-to-ten, and brought Gerry back to the present. He excused himself and went to continue setting out the hymn books and so on. It also brought the vicar, and Margaret also excused herself after introducing me to him briefly, as they all had things to see to before the service at quarter-past. I decided to brave the drizzle and walk down to the memorial, where I took a few photos of it bare and unadorned, then took a few more pictures from a distance as people started arriving at the church: Scouts and Guides, some of the local Air Force cadet corps, a couple of British Legion types, someone who looked like they might be the mayor...

Nearer the time, I returned to the church and made myself unobtrusive at the back. Even if I couldn't take photos, I could make mental notes.

The brief church service, and the procession out to the memorial and brief service there (including the minute's silence at 11am and the wreath-laying, of course), were nicely done; for once, I found myself fully engaged with the whole Remembrance Sunday business – perhaps because I had someone specific to remember, even though I knew next to nothing about Edward Stephenson. From my position out of the way at the back, my journalist's eye noticed also how the whole set-up looked so very photogenic: the vicar in his black/white/red and the Legion chaps in their suits and bowlers on the steps of the memorial; the rows of Scouts and Guides and cadets standing to attention with their flags; the kid from the local school's brass group with his trumpet, who'd just blown a clear and confident Last Post; the varied straggle of normal people, of all ages. Everything still. My camera finger itched to capture the strangely muted palette: the strong mass of black coats and hats and suits; the flashes of blue and gold and red and white of the cadets' and youth organisations' flags; the pricks of vivid red from the poppies in our lapels, and from the wreaths; the overall background of grey stone, grey sky and grey drizzle falling over us all.

I thought about rain and greyness and the cold, and the misery of living in that while either being shelled or being told to go and kill the poor faceless souls on the other side who were shelling you, and who were just as miserable under the same drizzle and in the same mud; I thought about the mental strain that must put on even the most robust of young men. I imagined the handsome and dashing young Edward Stephenson leading his troop of yeomanry somewhere over that battlefield (in front, like every good young leader), noticing a live grenade roll dangerously close: taking quick, decisive, brave and blatantly self-destructive action; I imagined him – in those slow-motion last seconds of clarity before he knew it would explode – drop from his horse (pushing the innocent animal away while indicating to his men to halt) and throw himself on top of the tiny bomb, to...to what end, exactly? It certainly didn't turn the tide of the war, that little act of gallantry, and who knows what he might have gone on to achieve had he survived and come home?

What on earth was the man thinking?, I wondered. Did he not consider his family, friends? Did he not consider what it'd be like to live through it as best he could, and come home? I felt myself get a bit teary at the thought of the wasted life, and turned my head slightly to blink surreptitiously.

To my surprise, there was a man standing quite close to me – I hadn't seen him in church, nor as we'd made our way outside. He seemed to be hanging back, like me, but also looked much shabbier than the rest of us, and unprepared for the cold and wet – he had no overcoat, for a start. His brown suit was crumpled and had seen many better days, the flat cap he held in his hands was old, too, and he looked like he'd given up on looking after himself some time ago. Nonetheless, I thought, it's nice that he had made the effort to come along to the parade. I wondered if he was remembering someone in particular.

As the schoolboy trumpeter blew the Reveille to mark the end of the minute's silence, and the crowd shuffled, I glanced back at the shabby old-timer. He turned his head and looked at me for a second, and I felt a deeply unpleasant shudder: not just the normal prickling on my neck, but a full and visceral shiver that shook my whole body for a second. He looked like he was crying, or at least trying to. His face was contorted and his mouth twisted in a grimace of anguish, but there were no tears – not even the drizzle appeared to have hit his face – and his eyes, though evidently touched (like mine) with some intense emotion at that moment, were completely misted over with a white film. The sockets were essentially blank and empty.

The vicar started reading the words of remembrance, and the man turned his head back and bowed it. I kept him in my peripheral vision, conscious of Gerry's description of the old man he'd known...but even so, just as the parade was breaking up, I realised that the figure had gone. I span round quickly, but there was no sign. My neck felt like it had goosebumps the size of boils. He really was nowhere on the square.

I knew then, instinctively, that I'd lost my ghost, and it didn't take me long to wonder if it had been Albert Dedding. He had seen me notice him; he knew that I knew about him, now. Not that it was any use if he didn't want to stick around, because I didn't know how to help him.

Margaret came over. "Georgia? We can take some photos now, if you like?" She touched my arm. "Are you all right?"

I whipped back round, trying to compose my face. "Yes, right. Great. Sorry, yes, I'm fine. Just got caught up in the moment, you know...?" I glanced round again, just to make sure, but the unnerving, crumpled, little man was definitely gone. I followed Margaret towards the memorial, and did the job I was being paid overtime to do.

I didn't keep the dignitaries any longer than I needed to, the drizzle was still persistent. We all made our way briskly over to the Assembly Rooms (apart from the vicar, who dashed back to the church to disrobe and help Gerry lock up). There was a buffet, and sparkling wine (or sparkling fruit juice for those of us driving) and there was a small display about Edward Stephenson. There was some general chit-chat, and then some small speeches from Margaret and the great-nephew – I got some nice pictures of the occasion and the display, which I knew Jules would be pleased with.

*

Margaret introduced me to the great-nephew: a tall, polite, balding man in his mid-forties with more than a passing resemblance to his great-uncle. He was also called Edward, and was there with his wife and two kids. He showed me the actual Military Cross, nestled in a solid case, with ribbon intact and the bar pinned across it. It was a remarkably handsome medal, to which the book in the library almost didn't do justice, and the ribbon was gorgeous. He allowed me to photograph it as well, and take a picture of him holding it (looking slightly shy). Then we perched ourselves on a windowsill and I got him talking.

"It's all rather a shame," he said. "My grandmother was born in 1900, so about ten years after Edward. I think the experience of the Great War made them all a bit funny about having kids. Obviously Edward died, but the other two older siblings apparently never saw the need. My granny was stuck at home – so the family story goes – until their father died when she was about 25, then she decided the only way out was to marry, which she did quite quickly. But even then my father wasn't born until 1930, and the next war put him off even marrying until he was well into his thirties. I came along in 1971, by which time not only Edward, of course, but the other sister and brother had all passed on. So we just had an old woman's stories, and a few physical relics." He patted the pocket to which he'd returned the medal. "I mean, Granny was only 16 when Edward died. I do wonder what she actually recalled, and what was an old woman painting the past in a romantic light."

I hadn't bothered to get my notebook out, because it felt like a normal conversation and I wanted the guy to feel like he was confiding in me. Fortunately, the journalist part of me has a good memory. "How often did your grandmother talk about that period...the War, and so on?"

"More than you'd think. Mostly it was about the family before the War changed things, though. I think, being at least five years younger than the rest of them, ten years younger than Edward even, she felt a bit jealous growing up – seeing their freedom, such as it was in those days – and feeling chafed at having to stay at home. She told me once that she'd caught Edward early one morning, coming back home, having been out late. He said he'd passed the night on his friend's floor, but she was sure he'd been with a lover." He glanced at the large copy of the same photo I'd seen in the newspaper, which had been sourced and included in the display. "I mean, he was a very good-looking fellow, and no-one that handsome is unaware of it."

Glancing away for a moment, out of the window overlooking the square, I saw the crumpled old man in the brown suit again. He was standing in front of the memorial in his own private silent tribute. Ignoring the unpleasant goosebumps on my neck and arms, I made a detailed mental note of his height and appearance, before I had to return my attention to the great-nephew and his children, who'd just come over. The girl, Daisy, was about eleven and had the same piercing eyes of her great-great-uncle (although otherwise looked like her mother); Edward's other child, a lad of about 16 called James, was (like his father) quite similar to the young war hero. Daisy glanced past me out of the window and made a comment about the strange little man. James tutted dramatically. As Edward and I glanced round, I just saw the figure sort of shimmer out of view. Edward said he couldn't see anyone.

I looked at Daisy carefully. "He looked a bit sad, didn't he?"

The girl nodded. "He disappeared very quickly. Almost like a ghost. Perhaps he didn't want to be seen."

"I saw him earlier at the parade. He appeared next to me at the back, but he disappeared quickly then, too." I looked at Daisy's innocent face, and decided she was just thinking in the slightly corkscrew way kids do sometimes and saying the first thing that came to mind. But what she'd said was interesting. Before I could stop myself, I asked, "Have you seen a ghost before?"

Edward chuckled in a long-suffering way. "If we ever end up in an old hotel or cottage on holiday, she has to do a tour of the rooms to see if any of them feel haunted. Ghosts are very much her things at the moment."

"That man can't have been a ghost, Daze, 'cos I saw him as well," said James. "And I never see these ghosts of yours."

Daisy didn't seem at all embarrassed at this revelation of her oddness to a stranger. "I saw one once, in a hotel. A little boy with no feet." She waved at her father and brother vaguely, as if writing off their scepticism. "They still don't believe me, but I know he was a ghost."

"Well, fair enough," I said, looking her in the eye and keeping my expression serious. "Maybe you've just seen your second." Then I realised this probably wasn't the best time to get into a long discussion with an eleven year-old about the reality of ghosts, let alone encourage her. I had mixed feelings about them myself. "Or maybe not. Maybe he was just very quick on his feet and had to be somewhere else."

She stared back at me for a moment, doubt in her wide eyes. "You saw him too."

"I did, true, and I might be a bit like your brother. There's supposedly a ghost where I work, a girl about your age. But I've never met her," I lied, "and I don't know about this man either. Maybe we'll never know." I glanced at Edward and smiled slightly, wondering how to change the subject. James looked slightly awkward, but then in my experience sixteen year-old boys tend to in situations like this. "What do you think about celebrating your great-great-uncle, then, Daisy?"

"Pff. War is stupid. Especially the First World War. All that death for no reason. We've been doing it in school. I feel sorry for his friend who would never see him again, though. But it's been quite interesting to look through his things."

Edward put his arm round his daughter. "We've been going through some of the old family things we have at home, after Margaret had been in touch about today. Turns out my grandmother kept quite a lot to do with Edward. My wife found some old letters which he must have had with him in his kitbag: all the stuff back at their camp was returned to the family, like a few books, these letters and so on. Whatever he had on his person, well, there wasn't much of that left, of course. Anyway, more than anything else it seems to be the letters that caught the kids' interest."

"They sound really interesting." I meant it. I was wondering if there would be any clues there. "I don't suppose I could come and take a look? I mean, the copy for today has to be in by tonight, but I'd love to find out more about him and what he did – just out of curiosity..."

"What do you mean, the copy of today?" asked Daisy.

I smiled at her. "It's a bit of work jargon. I'm a journalist, and my boss has sent me here to write an article about today and your great-great-uncle. The 'copy' is what we call the final version of the article which will go in the magazine, but I need to write it this afternoon because they're going to start physically printing the magazine tomorrow morning."

She looked suitably impressed, for an eleven year-old, and asked her father, "Does that mean he's famous?"

Edward squeezed her shoulder. "A little bit famous, maybe, poppet." He smiled at me. "Shall we let Georgia here come over to our house and read these letters and find out more about Lieutenant Edward? You never know, she might find him so interesting that she writes an article all about just him."

"We're not a big magazine, Daisy," I said hurriedly. "We just cover this county. But I'm sure lots of people round here would be interested to read about your brave great-great-uncle and his medal."

Daisy shrugged. "I think that's a nice idea." She seemed to think about something. "Can we get some more trifle?"

Edward chuckled. "All right then, come on."

Daisy waved at me. "Bye then, Georgia. See you soon." She dragged her father over to the buffet.

James hovered awkwardly. I invited him to sit with me on the windowsill. "What did you find interesting about these letters, then, James?"

He shrugged and stared for a moment out of the window. "Quite a lot were from a friend," he said eventually. "Sounds like they had a big falling-out when they met up on leave back at home. This other friend was very sorry about it all, kept asking whether things would be all right between them. At least, I think that's what it's all about." He looked a bit embarrassed. "It's quite difficult to read the writing, and he wasn't very good at spelling. I have to try reading them out loud sometimes." He smiled shyly. "And there's other things about the weather and other people they both know from back home, that kind of stuff."

"But it's this falling-out that you find interesting?" I wondered if this related to the pub fight.

"Yeah." He twisted his hands in his lap, and glanced around like he wanted to make sure none of his family were nearby. "Thing is, some of the things..." He broke off and looked at me properly. "You know like you're a journalist? Would any of this go in this article?"

"I work for Local Life magazine, James. We're not The Sun. We're not interested in making life awkward and embarrassing people in public, if that's what you mean." I smiled reassuringly. "We do nice stories about local history and pretty bits of the county, and the hottest new tea shops." He smiled uncertainly, and I grinned fully. "Believe me, our tea shop reviews are the most popular feature, no lie. Anyway, I was just talking off the top of my head before. He sounds like an interesting man, your great-great-uncle, and our readers like a local hero. Especially a First World War one. Also, the article I'm here today to write is just about today, so it's just about his bravery and about how the town is honouring him. Anything else is just because I'm personally intrigued. I mean, even if we felt there was more to say, I'd have to get my editor's permission..."

He looked a bit reassured, but had possibly started to blush. "Some of the things in these letters...I mean, it's a shame we don't have his replies..." He gestured over his shoulder to the photo of Lt. Stephenson. "It's just one side of the story, isn't it? But some of the things...they're a bit..." He was definitely blushing now.

"Don't tell me anything you don't want to, James. But also, I don't have to be in journalist mode right now." I spread my hands. "Look, no notebook."

He pushed some of his slightly floppy hair away from his face and smiled a quick but grateful smile. "He had some books, too. Do you know 'A Shropshire Lad'?"

The change of tack caught me off-guard a bit. Fortunately, I'd done some English literature in my degree. "I do. Housman. It's quite bleak stuff."

He nodded. "I looked up about it after reading some of it. We did the war poets in school a bit ago, and I asked my teacher about Housman, we had quite a long discussion about some of the poems. Anyway, Lieutenant Edward had a copy in his pack." He looked at me carefully. "Also, 'De Profundis'."

I looked back at him. "Do you mean the Oscar Wilde letter?"

He nodded and looked away. "It was tucked in the back of his bible, looked like it was ripped out of a book somewhere." He looked a bit sad.

I thought for a moment, and wondered if things were beginning to make some sort of sense – in a very roundabout way. It was a long shot, though. I would need time to think about it, because at the moment it was all just floating about in my head, unconnected. "What were you going to tell me about the language of the letters?"

James shook his head. "It's just...I mean, some of the phrases were...odd. For a...you know...another man..." He was definitely blushing now.

I knew about Housman and Wilde, of course, and Owen and the rest of the gay war poets for that matter, and what that might signify for a young single man with a close male friend in 1916. But I wasn't an awkward teenager and a distant descendent of the man in question here. I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. "It was a difficult time. If you were...if you didn't...if you weren't like other people." I patted my chest lightly. "I wouldn't have wanted to be around then. I'd have found it...yeah, difficult."

He looked at me carefully again. Uncertainty and interest (or maybe hope?) flitted across his face.

I smiled and waited for him to realise what I was saying. Eventually, I noticed a tinge of relief in his eyes. I dug in my bag for one of the magazine's business cards, and scribbled my mobile number and email on the back. "Have a think about what you want to tell me, if anything. About Lieutenant Edward, or whatever. If you don't, that's fine too." I handed him the card. "I'll give your dad one of these as well, but you feel free to use it yourself too, if you want. Completely off the record, OK?"

He smiled. "OK. Thanks."

I patted his arm, and glanced round the room. "I think your mum and Daisy look like they've had enough and might want to be going soon. I should talk to some of the others as well, maybe." I stood up. "Take care, James."

"Yeah. You too, Georgia. Thanks."

*

Glancing at the clock a little later, having done the rounds of a couple of other guests, I decided I needed to think about getting back. People were beginning to drift away anyway, and it was well after 1 o'clock; I had the photos to sort out as well as the copy to write, and I was hoping to have a few hours to myself in what was left of the weekend. There was something I needed to check, first, though.

I found Gerry near the buffet table, eating trifle. I picked up a handful of party sausage rolls and joined him.

"Now then, lass. Got all the facts you need?"

"Thank you, Gerry, I have. It's been lovely." I waved a sausage roll. "You do a good spread."

"Ah, not bad. Nice to see so many people, and young 'uns at that. When'll it appear in the Life?"

"Well, I've got to write it up now when I get home, and they're starting printing tomorrow, so it'll be in December's issue." He nodded, and I nudged a tiny bit closer. "Gerry, there was one thing, and I know it'll sound like a mad question. I was just curious...Albert Dedding...what did he look like?"

Gerry raised an eyebrow, but smiled. "Old Bert?" He held out his spoon and indicated a line an inch or two higher than my head. "Bout so high, so not so tall. Quite stocky." He stared into the distance for a moment. "Tell truth, I only knew him as an old man, but I 'spect he was probably a big, strong, handsome fella in his day. He nivver missed a Remembrance parade, even at the end. I had to 'old him up the last time, the time afore he died, he was that weak. But he was always there, in his old brown suit, and it always made him weep. Mebbe for what he'd lost, mebbe for them as didn't come home, I dunno. My main memory of him was of someone who'd seen too much of life too early, but he was still strong as an ox even in them later days. His eyes was a bit unsettling, mind, what with the gassin' he'd gone through. All milky an' misted-ovver, like. Poor old lad." He swallowed a mouthful of trifle. "Why d'you ask?"

I sighed, and lied (again). "Not sure. I think he just sounded like one of those interesting characters when you were talking about him earlier."

Gerry put his bowl down. "Show you his grave, if you like? There's only me tends to it, it'd be forgotten otherwise."

I put a hand on his arm lightly and tried to ignore the goosebumps. "Thanks. That'll be really nice. Just let me say my goodbyes and get my stuff – I think I'll probably go straight home after."

*

Gerry showed me a small headstone about two-thirds of the way down a row in the churchyard. The inscription read simply: "Albert John Dedding, 1889-1965". There was a small pot of purple and yellow violas slightly to one side, which Gerry told me were from his garden; he was pleased with how long they'd lasted this year.

"No family?" I asked.

"Never married. He stopped talking to his own family, long afore I knew him. Or they did him. Same thing, at the end of the day." Gerry hesitated. "He told me once he'd done a short spell inside, din't say what for. Think they might have disowned him after that."

I squeezed his arm lightly, and told him I thought it was lovely that he saw to the grave's upkeep. He replied that it was only fair – Bert had been good to him when he was just starting out, and Gerry'd always felt sorry for him losing so much: his sight, his confidence, his innocence, his best friend, his job, his family...

With a sense of sadness at the whole business of remembrance, tempered a little by the welcome the town had given me and the proof that little acts of kindness like Gerry's were happening, I took my leave and drove my thoughtful way back to Stow.

At least I was now pretty certain I knew the identity of the restless spirit Miss Williams had said I would meet, even if I still had very little idea what I was supposed to do about it. And I had a further potential twist in the life of Lt. Stephenson to bear in mind.