It is not the ghost that haunts, but the legacy that's left behind. . 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.