Tess tried to turn round in the narrow space and nearly stabbed herself on the window ledge, but she had recognised the voice. ‘It’s me, Tess Williams, Constable Agnew,’ she said breathlessly. ‘There’s a cat or something shut in here and yowling fit to bust. Mr Payne thought that if I could get through the window I might be able to unlock the back door and let us both out, me and the cat, and he was quite right about one thing: the key is in the lock.’

Constable Agnew sighed. ‘I can’t hear no animal, not cat, nor dog, nor guinea pig,’ he muttered. ‘And likely, when you get the door open, whatever it is will leg it so fast we’ll never know if it were fish, fowl or good red herring. But carry on. It’ll save me goin’ back to the station and knockin’ up Mr Egbert, what’s the landlord, then bringin’ him down here and stayin’ with him while he checks his property . . .’ He stopped speaking as Tess, wriggling frantically, suddenly disappeared from view, landing on the floor of the stockroom with a thump and a yelp. Albert, standing on tiptoe, could see nothing, but before he could so much as enquire if she was still alive, the key grated in the lock and the back door creaked open.

Tess grinned from Albert’s face to the round and ruddy one of the police constable. ‘There’s a not very nice smell coming from somewhere . . . and the creature, whatever it is, can’t get into the shop because the door between is closed. But it’s very frightened, too frightened to make a bolt for the yard, so if you wouldn’t mind, Constable Agnew, I’d like to borrow your torch and we’ll shut the back door until we find out just what has spent the last three days trapped in this room. Are there skunks in England? Phew, what a pong!’ She took the torch from the constable and began to sweep the beam methodically around the walls. ‘Aha! Oh, look, Albert. Look, Mr Agnew. Isn’t that a pretty sight?’

The ‘pretty sight’ was a smoke-coloured cat whose big golden eyes stared up into the torch beam unblinkingly. She lay on her side with four kittens tugging at her probably empty teats.

Albert sucked in his breath. ‘Poor little blighter, no wonder she was so desperate and created such a din,’ he murmured. ‘Of course, even if she could have got out by some means she wouldn’t have left her kittens. And the old felt material Miss Foulks used for making her hats makes an excellent bed.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘If I go to my shop and bring back a cardboard box, could we transfer her and the kittens into it?’ The constable agreed and Albert went off, to return moments later with a roomy cardboard box which he stood on the floor of the stockroom. ‘I’m sure Miss Foulks will want the cat, if not her babies. I suppose this cat did belong to Miss Foulks?’ he said as he re-joined them.