That was the spell of the clacks, and it wasn’t only goblins who felt it. Adora Belle knew and didn’t mind that the clacksmen and clackswomen would fraternize along the wonderful scintillating lines of light. After all, quite a few marriages had been brokered through the unsuspecting ether in the small hours of the night and sooner or later little clacksmen and women would be born.

Adora Belle had once told Moist, ‘You know that it takes a special kind of person to be a clacksman and especially a clackswoman, and it’s important that they marry and have children with the right kind of blood. They’re our future, and heaven help them if their spouse doesn’t also work on the clacks. Clacks people are a type and like attracts like.’

When Moist told her the news of the accident in the Effing Forest she disappeared into her office, and Moist could hear the goblins stampeding towards it and then a rattle of the clacks on the roof. Before long she sent down another goblin with a flimsy that said, ‘News from Scrote. Stop. It’s a boiler that burst. Stop. Not a train. Stop. Horrible deaths of two people, but no engine as such. Stop.’

That latest discovery made Moist doubly sure of himself and he clamped his hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, ‘Please, don’t worry, Harry. I know how this one is going to go. All I need is for you and Mister Simnel to meet me in the Effing Forest as quickly as you can. And, oh, I think we might need Thunderbolt.’

It was time to talk to the golem horse once more. Moist was rather concerned about taking it on another long journey so soon, but the horse said, ‘Sir, I am a horse. Being a horse is my passion in life, and getting to the Effing Forest will be a breeze. Saddle up, please, and let’s be off.’

Moist had found something like a sweet spot in the gait. No muscle and bone horse could possibly gallop at this speed without legs getting tangled, but even so he covered the fifty miles to the Effing Forest by sunrise without much in the way of groinal sprains.

He immediately sought out the nearest pub to the accident, which was the premises of Edward Forefather, purveyor of fine beers, stouts and ales. At least that’s what it said on the rather large plaque behind the bar and Moist was not going to argue.

The publican, already up and dressed, looked him up and down and said, ‘I’ve been expecting somebody like you. You’re from the city, aren’t you? It’s about the explosion, isn’t it? Are you one of them reporters? Only I wants money if you’re a reporter.’

Moist said, ‘No, I’m not, I’m with the railway. I heard about the explosion and came to see what had happened.’