When the twenty-seventh dawned, Jimmy realised how sensible Miss Trent had been to insist on a break to enjoy themselves and revel in the spirit of Christmas. When they had restored the kitchen to its normal state and were sitting round the table eating cold chicken, potatoes baked in their jackets and slices of the ham which Mr Theaker had contributed, via Major Williams, to the holiday fare, they were all relaxed and each was eager to air his or her ideas. Miss Trent had made a large trifle, and as the spoon was scraped around the last smears of fruit and sponge cake she stood up and rapped on the table. ‘Right; I’m afraid that for us Christmas is over, and serious life must begin again. I know we’ve all been thinking frantically how best to solve the Trewins’ problem, and I mean to lead off with my own theories, if nobody minds.’

Everyone thought this was sensible, so Miss Trent began. ‘Mo and Jimmy are in a very unfortunate position,’ she pointed out. ‘In normal circumstances I should advise them to go to the nearest police station and demand protection; but from what? For one thing, their father let them stay in the Huxtables’ charge; he even agreed to the Huxtables moving into number four and letting their own house, and everyone in the Court knows he sends Mrs Huxtable his allotment at the end of every month. She has never allowed the children to write to their father, nor given them any letters that might have come for them. Unfortunately, neither Jimmy nor Mo ever went to the authorities to complain of their treatment. Mrs Huxtable no doubt saw to that. And now we have a situation which has made everything even more difficult. Mo says she saw Cyril open a parcel addressed to you both—’

‘I did see him,’ Mo cut in. ‘It had our Christmas presents in it, and then he took them upstairs. And he had a glittery necklace too,’ she added. ‘Don’t you believe me, Miss Trent?’

Miss Trent laughed and ruffled Mo’s curls. ‘I’m just telling it as you would have to tell it to the scuffers,’ she explained. ‘You see, darling, there were no witnesses apart from yourself who could be called upon to give what is known as “corroborative evidence”. It would be your word against Cyril’s, and the police might well think a six-year-old could be mistaken. And why would they think there was anything special about a parcel of toys? As for the necklace, it could just be glass, and a present for his mum. They might even think you’d been asleep and dreamed the whole thing.’

‘But what about the threats?’ Jimmy said after a longish pause. ‘That isn’t a perishin’ dream, I can tell you. Oh, Miss Trent, are you sayin’ we’ve got to let Cyril beat the pair of us to a pulp before the scuffers will listen to our story?’

Miss Trent leaned across the table and patted his cheek. ‘What I’m trying to say, dear Jimmy, is that without an independent witness we have no proof that Cyril ever had the necklace, and only you and Mo have heard him threaten you with violence for taking it – or whatever it is he thinks you took. I think it would be difficult to persuade the police to help you when there is no evidence that any crime has been committed.’ She looked around the table; Jimmy and Mo looked frustrated and on the brink of tears, whilst Frank looked very thoughtful indeed. He was frowning heavily, but the frown cleared suddenly and he spoke.