MY NAME IS POLLY WINTER

A lively ghost story set in a residential area of Liverpool, where Jessica Cameron has rented a room in the comfortable old house of John and Sophy Clare while she researches a project on Victorian-era family life. Before long, she's confronted by signs of a psychic presence that she tries hard to rationalize. The Clares are hospitable—Sophy is jittery and drinks a bit; John loses himself in TV; they talk not at all of their two grown children and seem only slightly perturbed at the disappearance of their daily help Mrs. Tate. Jessica, meanwhile, is hearing and seeing echoes of the past as she pieces together a history of the house. It had once belonged to a libidinous Reverend Makin, who liked to rescue ``soiled doves'' from whorehouses, and the house, in his time, had suffered another unexplained disappearance. Past and present come together in an explosive, menace-filled denouement that answers all questions save those involving the supernatural. Nice plotting that sags a little midway but makes a good recovery. A boon for believers—plus fun for all—and one of the author's best (A Vow of Chastity, p. 216, etc.).