“We should get back.” I turn up my collar. “It’s getting colder, and I’d like to fire up my wood burner. Also, I need to open the Lost-and-Foundery again before Mr Mollusc gets ideas and decides to board it up for good.”

“I don’t want to go back to your cellar,” says Violet. “Not yet, anyway. I want to go and look at the sea.”

“Er, really?” I say, glancing up at the slate-grey sky and getting a fat snowflake in the eye.

“And I want you to tell me about this malamander thing.”

“OK, OK,” I say. “But let’s not hang around here.”

When we reach the sea wall, it has at least stopped snowing. We look out over the beach, which has appeared again now that the tide is retreating. To one side, the pier stretches out into the ocean, its iron under-structure emerging from the heaving waves. Seegol’s Diner is the only point of light to be seen on it.

“Hungry?” I say to Violet.

“Yes. But now I really don’t have any money.”

“My treat,” I say. “Come on, let’s go down to the beach first. I know a shortcut.”

The narrow stone steps to the shore are wet, and slimy with green. When we reach the sand, it’s odd to think that just a couple of hours ago the place we are now standing was over our heads with water.

“Are you paid then?” says Violet, as we set off across the wet sand and shingle. “For your lost-property job?”

“Oh, yes.” I straighten my cap, which the wind keeps pushing over one ear. “But not in money. Being the Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus is more important than that. I get to keep anything that is not collected.”

“Really? Anything?”

“Yes. Well, anything that is not collected after a century.”

“A hundred years!” Violet looks amazed.

“I know! At least once a week something gets signed out of the ledger for good. If no one has collected it after a century, they’re probably dead and gone, aren’t they?”

We crunch on through the shingle, picking our way over the piles of seaweed and sticks of driftwood. Ahead, someone well wrapped in tatty coats and scarves is approaching, carrying a metal bucket. On her head are at least three hats, all tied down with a piece of string.

“Hallooo!” the someone cries, and I hallooo! back.

“I don’t often see you on the beach, young Herbie,” says the woman as she draws near. “Who is your interesting friend?”

“This is Violet,” I say. “Violet, this is Mrs Fossil. She’s a beachcomber.”