It was that night I heard the ghost in the chimney. I was tucked up in the old-fashioned hotel bed, so high off the floor, unable to sleep. On the small table beside my pillow was the present that Uncle Gennady had given me, his war medal, the most precious thing he owned, he had said. I thought how strange it was that he had given it to me, and with a tear in his eye, but Pop had just smiled when I asked him, and said that he was a Russian, a very emotional race, given to spontaneous, generous actions. I was thinking about this when I heard the sound, a strange, distant cry, almost inaudible. It came again, a little louder and more urgent, and it seemed to me that it came from the direction of the fireplace. I got out of bed and made my way towards it. I knelt down and bent my head toward the grate and felt a breath of cool air brush against my cheek. And then I heard it again, a scream of agony, echoing down the chimney from far, far away. I gasped and rocked back on my heels, terrified. All around me the room was dark and still. I jumped to my feet and ran back to bed and buried myself under the blankets. It was a cat, I told myself, up on the roof, yowling at the moon. The next morning at breakfast I asked Daphne, the owner of the hotel, about the cries from the chimney. She seemed quite alarmed that I had heard them, and then explained that a ghost haunted Chelsea Mansions. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but this was England, and things were different. Everyone seemed very subdued that morning. The happy mood of the previous day had vanished, as if the ghost had sent a chill through all our lives.