They would never realise that the antique writing desk they bought for their flat had been in Number Sixteen before.  When the desk was new, Number Sixteen was a house, their flat a dimly gaslit reception room.  Then, the desk had stood to the left of the bay window, where their futon now rested.  Carefully - aware of the furniture's value, accrued over time - the delivery men set the desk down in the centre of the room, on the spot where her body had fallen in 1890, with a bullet in her heart from a gun in the desk drawer.