“They can’t keep the shades from speaking, you understand,” Nigel whispered. “If they choose to cling to this plane rather than going on to their eternal reward, their speech is protected under the Wisps and Shades Act of 1822. Most are too morose or polite to do anything about it, but the ones that stir up trouble get exorcised here.”

Weatherby paled beneath his jet-black top hat, and his gloved hands tightened around his umbrella. “Do I have anything to fear from this shortcut of yours?”

“They aren’t poltergeists, you sot. All they have are words. Don’t let them get to you.”

They entered the garden through an ornate (and warded) wrought-iron gate, and immediately Weatherby could see shades lolling about on tombstones or in midair. The taunts began at once:

“Hey, berk! I know your face. Your pap’s spitting image! Saw him in hell I did!”

“How’s the wife, berk? She was well last I saw her, though there weren’t much talking then if you get my thrust!”

“Still going to church, berk? I got news for you: ain’t no god or devils after you shuffle off, just floating here like me and having good sport! You best kiss one of those fence spikes and save the world the trouble!”