They had us wait there, by our beds, all morning, drying out. At last, one by one, an Iremonger would be called and escorted out to be interviewed and would not come back afterwards, so that we who were left could only wonder at what was going on. Slowly, so slowly, the day ebbed on. Another Iremonger, a sink Iremonger, poked his head in to whisper that the moustache cup had managed to escape, that one of the kitchen boys, eager for a look-see, had lifted the pot, just a little, and the cup had rushed out, he’s out in the heaps now, the boy, and all are looking for the moustache cup. What a fuss, I thought, what a people. I hoped they’d never find that moustache cup. I thought of Clod then, who though a bit strange and creeping, though his head was large and his skin pale, though he was short and peculiar, showed some kindness. Perhaps Clod, perhaps odd Clod could help me find out what had happened to the Iremonger who had scratched her name. I’d find her, with his help. Together we would find her.

‘Iremonger!’

I was called for, upstairs to Mr Sturridge’s parlour.

Outside Mr Sturridge’s parlour many objects had been stacked. There was the ship’s lantern which was the butler’s own particular object, and beside it various other odd things, a glass paperweight, a large pencil sharpener with handle, a pen nib, a bookend, a length of skirting board, an unwrapped bar of carbolic soap, a belt buckle and a boot scraper. Other people’s birth objects I supposed, but quite why they were kept outside I had no notion.

I was summoned within. Mr Sturridge was in a corner, his great height nearly at the ceiling so that he appeared a sort of pillar to the room and that should he walk away the parlour would collapse. He looked very unhappy, he looked very put out. Various city Iremongers stood around the butler’s desk, and behind the desk, raised high on pillows, sat some other type of Iremonger that I’d not seen before. This one was short and shiny and round-faced and in a very fine uniform with a gold bay leaf on its collar, he seemed a very happy man, with a big grin on his face. The eyes were the most peculiar thing about him, they were all white and milky, no dark in them at all. A blind man.

‘This room,’ he called, ‘still is so noisy, still so very talkative. There! What’s that?’ He sat upright, his head leaning now this side, now that. He raised his little hands up. ‘Silence everyone! Not a sound. I’ve located it, there, there! There!’ He pointed. ‘What’s there?’

‘It is a wall sconce, sir,’ said a city Iremonger.