It is not the ghost that haunts, but the legacy that's left behind.
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To me he'll always be Jeremy 'the bastard' Asquith. From the time we met as roomies at Cambridge, the chap was a cad. He had the looks, the attitude, and the money - at least until he blew his monthly allowance on dice and cards and had to cadge a loan off me for pipe tobacco. If he calls you Old Bean, while shaking your hand, best count your fingers.
The Great War put an end to our college days, and we next met in the trenches: me as a journo with a camera, he as a corporal with his ever-present pipe and a dark side that even The Somme couldn't mask. Our reunion was short-lived - I left the field hospital in time to stand at Asquith's grave while an army padre delivered a hasty service. I returned to Blighty with a small bag of personal effects for his family. A simple task, but I was soon to learn that bad things also come in small packages.
Since then, I've run across Bolsheviks, treasure, and spies, as well as murder, revenge, and lies. I could be onto the scoop of my life. That is, if Asquith's legacy doesn't kill me first.