The words appeared to act as some kind of magic talisman. Mrs Plimpton immediately turned back into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle. Ellis slipped past her into the next room.

A very unprofessional-looking tableau met his eyes. An unsecured Henry Plimpton was neither zip-tied nor face down on the floor babbling his confession as fast as he could go. In fact, Major Ellis was not convinced that leaving the prisoner to sit comfortably in his own armchair was official Time Police procedure. Nor should two of the arresting officers be murmuring gently and reassuringly to him. Of all of them, only Parrish, still rummaging through the mess of papers on the mantelpiece, appeared to be doing his job properly.

As Major Ellis said a long time afterwards, it was at this point that the . . . uniqueness . . . of this team began to make itself apparent.

Things were to get worse. The kitchen door opened to reveal Mrs Plimpton staggering slightly behind a large and heavily laden tray – because in the Plimpton household, tea was always accompanied by biscuits, cake and scones.

Mindful of his manners, Matthew stepped up and took the heavy tray from her and Lockland pulled out the coffee table for him to set it down. Ellis rolled his eyes and sighed.

Parrish picked up a steaming mug and said, conversationally, ‘So – this is tea, is it? It looks absolutely bloody awful. You know, I’m sure the 20th century would be a much more cheerful place if you all stopped slowly poisoning yourselves with . . .’ He caught Ellis’s eye. ‘Mm . . . this looks delicious.’

They were joined by the Plimpton offspring who had had – by the process of osmosis, presumably – become aware of refreshments and left their natural habitats to help themselves.

In the flurry of the chase, Luke had caught only a very fleeting glance of the younger Plimptons, and that at some speed, and this was his first chance to see them properly. His proud boast had always been that not much rendered him speechless – he now realised this was no longer something of which he could claim.

Both les enfants Plimptons were so heavily tattooed as to suggest they were perhaps considering careers in the Merchant Navy. Or – and this seemed much more likely – they had been compulsorily tattooed by the authorities as a warning to others; he could see the sense of that.

The male Plimpton was encased from head to toe in camouflage gear, from which large, wobbling white areas were already spilling over in a way he, Luke, couldn’t feel met even basic military requirements. On the other hand, his hairstyle would have won instant Time Police approval, being so short it was merely a dirty shadow on his head.