We’re sitting in Dr Thalassi’s study, behind tall glass windows that look over the main hall of the museum. From here, the exhibits beyond are nothing but strange skeleton shapes. The only light comes from a paraffin lamp that hisses on the desk. The doctor had this with him when he found us crouching in shock on the ramparts. The folded umbrella he brandished as a weapon is on the desk too, like a polite threat.

“It wasn’t me,” protests Violet. “I didn’t break anything. It was…”

“I’m listening,” says the doctor, one thick black eyebrow raised at us.

Vi looks at me. I shrug back. After all, what did we see?

I clear my throat, and hope that the little pieces of sticking plaster on my face don’t look too ridiculous.

“As official Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus Hotel, I hope you don’t imagine for one moment that I, or my associate here, would break your windows for fun, Doctor Thalassi—”

“You can drop the posh voice, Herbie,” interrupts the doc, lowering both eyebrows into a single monster caterpillar of hair. “It won’t work on me.”

I deflate.

“But it wasn’t us,” says Vi. “It really wasn’t.”

Dr Thalassi looks at us both in turn. Then he nods. He lifts the umbrella off the desk and drops it into a brass stand near by.

“I know it wasn’t,” he says after a moment. “The glass is all on the outside. Whoever broke that window was already inside the museum.”

“Ow, it’s starting to hurt,” says Violet, clutching her cheek. The doctor has already given her a wad of cotton wool soaked in disinfectant to hold against it. The cotton wool is pink with blood.

“Let me see,” says the doctor. He gets to his feet and allows his specs to drop down onto his nose as he peers at the wound.

“This wasn’t done by glass,” he says. “It looks for all the world like something scratched you. Something big.”

Vi and I exchange glances again. But there doesn’t seem to be any point beating around this particular supernatural bush.

“Dr Thalassi,” says Vi. “Do you believe in the malamander?”

The doctor sits back, making his chair creak, and places his fingertips together in a steeple. Since he’s also wearing a swirly dressing gown, he reminds me for a moment of Sherlock Holmes.

“Interesting question,” he says. “A legendary aquatic creature, entirely unknown to science, that is rumoured to haunt these shores and which is occasionally sighted by the townsfolk as they roll home from the pub at midnight. And for which there isn’t a shred of evidence, I might add. Do you think this is something I should believe in?”