I ignore the question. I’ll be expected to open up my Lost-and-Foundery soon, and already I can hear guests checking in and out at the hotel reception, and the distant sound of breakfast being served.

I start tidying some of the mess from yesterday, and I’m pleased when Violet gets up to help. Between us it’s not long before things are almost back to how they should be in my little cellar: utter chaos, but the sort of chaos where I more or less know where everything is, and where some proper lost-and-foundering could be done if someone rings my bell.

“I wonder where it is,” says Violet, as we survey our handiwork. “Or where they are. They might have had more than one.”

“Where what is?” I say, straightening my cap. I’m already struggling to keep up and the day has barely begun.

“My parents’ suitcase,” says Violet. “Or cases. I mean, they surely had luggage. Luggage that they would have left behind in the room when they vanished. Well, where is it?”

It’s a good question.

I should have thought of it.

“There are hundreds of lost bags and suitcases down here,” I say, “going back over a century. I’d need to check the register.”

“Well, can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Check the register.”

I go up to my cubbyhole and lift down the big leather book where I, and all Lost-and-Founders before me, have recorded everything that has ever been handed in at the Lost-and-Foundery. I bring it down to the cellar, open it out on the floor, and flick back to twelve years before.

“What are the green ticks for?” asks Violet.

“That’s for when something is returned. See, you write a description of the item in black ink, make notes in blue if you have a lead to the owner …”

“If you find clues, you mean,” says Violet, but I ignore her.

“… and then tick the entry off in green if it gets returned.”

“I see. So, is there an entry for Parma? About twelve years ago? I know I was found in December…”

Violet stops talking. I’ve found the entry, describing two suitcases and several loose items that were handed in the day Violet’s parents vanished. The name PARMA is written in careful letters. There are no notes in blue ink, and no green ticks. What there are, though, are hard red lines crossing out the entire entry.

“What does that mean?” says Violet.

I fiddle with my cap.

“It means … er, that is to say … the red lines are, um…”

“Herbie!”

“Well, I’m afraid it means the owners were declared dead, and the suitcases handed over to the next of kin. It means your parents’ luggage isn’t here. It means someone else in your family came to collect it.”

Violet shakes her head.

“No. No, that isn’t right. My dad has no other family. Except my great-aunt Winniegar, of course.”