I put my hand over my heart. “Amber, I swear to you, on my honour as Lost-and-Founder, that I will never, ever, pass up the chance to annoy that whiny old whinge-bag Mollusc. And I think you already know that.”

Amber laughs and points to the old black and brass telephone. “Just one call. I’ll keep a lookout for the whinge-bag.”

I pick up the heavy receiver and dial the number from the booking record. I hear the purr of the dialling tone, and then a voice answers.

“Exotic Erratics. What name, please?”

“Um…” I say, because I wasn’t actually expecting an answer, let alone one as strange as this.

“Ah, good morning,” says the voice, sounding slightly more formal now. “You’re through to the Natural History Museum, Department of Cryptozoology and Exotic Erratics. How may I help you?”

“My name is Herbert Lemon,” I say slowly, putting on the posh voice because – well, because Natural History Museum! “I am the Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus Hotel, and I am calling because I believe you have lost something? Or rather, someone.”

“Who is this?” The voice sounds annoyed now. “How did you get this number?”

“This would have been twelve years ago,” I continue, before they can hang up. “Did someone in your department go missing?”

I hear a faint intake of breath on the other end of the line.

Then the voice tells me a name.

MRS FOSSIL’S BUCKET

IT’S THE NEXT DAY, and a frosty sun is climbing above the horizon. When I get up, Violet is already awake, and staring out of the cellar window at the ankles of the people passing by. From upstairs in the hotel comes the suitcase clatter of guests in Reception.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask.

Violet has built some kind of nest for herself, behind the coat racks where a hot-water pipe runs along the wall. She was already asleep down there when I got back the evening before, and this is the first time I’ve seen her since.

“Yes. After reading for a bit.”

“I don’t suppose you stole any more pastries from the kitchen,” I say.

Violet shakes her head. “You told me not to, remember?”

“I get a plate of stale ones every morning,” I explain. “Chef used to save me freshly baked, but … well, Mr Mollusc put a stop to that when he found out. I’ll bring them down here and we can chew over what to do next. Oh, and I’ve found something out.”

When I get back with the rubbery croissants, Violet is no longer in the window. She’s sitting in the armchair, the still-damp contents of Mrs Fossil’s bucket spread out on a suitcase in front of her.

“Herbie, can you remember where Mrs Fossil was hurt?”

“Under the pier,” I say.