A bird sang from a nearby tree. Nurd stopped to listen. The bird took one look at him, let out a startled squawk, and suddenly decided to fly south for the winter, even though it wasn’t a migratory bird.

Nurd adjusted his hood until only a tiny circle of his face was visible, and walked on.

• • •

Once they had retrieved their car—following a long lecture from Sergeant Rowan to Jolly about the difference between “borrowing” and “stealing,” which Sergeant Rowan suspected went in one ear and out the other, but not before being relieved of any valuables—the two policemen decided to drive over to Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s to see what the scientists were up to in their Secret Laboratory That Everybody Knew About. It was part of the Biddlecombe constabulary’s weekly routine: pop in, say hello, pretend that the scientists were simply sweet manufacturers working night and day to perfect new types of sherbet, and make sure that they hadn’t opened any portals between worlds.

“We should have arrested them for stealing our car,” said Constable Peel as they neared Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s.

“Some things aren’t worth the time or the trouble,” said Sergeant Rowan. “At least we got it back before they sold it.”

“You’re very tolerant of them.”

“Spending time in Hell with people will do that to you.”

“Spending time with them is Hell anyway,” said Constable Peel. “Spending time with them in Hell was just Hell squared.”

“You know, I think they like you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

Constable Peel couldn’t help but feel pleased despite himself.

“What makes you say that, Sarge?”

“Have they burgled you yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“There you have it. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, that they must like you if they haven’t burgled your house?”

“I don’t think they know where I live.”

“Really? Well, be sure not to tell them, then. You wouldn’t want to put temptation in their way.”

They pulled into the yard of Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s. The factorye—sorry, factory²²—occupied a big gloomy Victorian monstrosity designed by Hilary Mould. All of Hilary Mould’s buildings were gloomy, thought Sergeant Rowan. They might not have started out that way on the plans, but that’s how they ended up. Hilary Mould could have designed a playhouse and made it look like a mortuary. His buildings were the kind of places that were probably advertised in newspapers in the Afterlife:

FOR IMMEDIATE OCCUPATION: Building looking for ghost to haunt it. All Dark Corners, Weird Carvings, Creaking Doors, Sinister Paintings of Relatives of Whom Nobody Speaks, and Secret Rooms Not Listed on Original Plans entirely intact. Would suit ghoul, specter, poltergeist, or other incorporeal entity. Available for eternity, although shorter leases will be considered. Inquiries to the wailing, demented spirit of Hilary Mould.